


Doing So

by FowlProse



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (Tags relevant to future chapters:), (mostly) Bottom!Steve, (mostly) Top!Bucky, Depression, Dominant Bucky Barnes, Kink Discovery, M/M, Masturbation, Post-CACW, Praise Kink, Service Submission, Submissive Steve Rogers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, accidental lifestyle d/s, caretaking kink, fledgling bdsm practitioners, gentle domination, intimacy kink, poorly negotiated kinks, post-CACW AU, see notes for more info, some elements may be construed as dubcon, well negotiated kinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FowlProse/pseuds/FowlProse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky try to figure out how to live with each other when they can barely live with themselves. </p><p>Mostly, this involves their genitals and how they can interact with each other’s junk.</p><p>(Bucky tries to get himself together by getting Steve’s shit together, and then they get together. In numerous ways.)</p><p>(AKA: smut with feelings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky Is a Bit of a Pill and Both of Our Intrepid Heroes Experience Ennui

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding possible dubcon: while every sexual act in this series is planned as consensual as fuck, I do want to point out that neither of the main chars is very good with expressing their intentions and may come across as either unwilling or manipulative depending on context. If you want hella spoilers, read under the bolded blurb in the bottom notes.
> 
> Also, as a general heads up: warnings/kinks/etc will be added as necessary to the tags. Some of the tags already up haven't really appeared yet, but they're a big part of the "story" (ha) so I figured I'd pop them up there. 
> 
> Annnd: this isn't really edited very much because it's more of a writing exercise / self-indulgent bullshit fic. So, don't judge too harshly? But, I never the less enjoy criticism, so if you have opinions please share.

Bucky spends his first two months in Wakanda feeling like little more than a backdrop for the Steve and T’Challa Political Intrigue Escapades. Steve is figuring out how to get his buddies out of no-bail super-jail, T’Challa is offering aid but in exchange for lengthy debates with Steve about the ramifications of Wakandan interference and blah blah something something. Steve explains stuff about Thunderbolt Ross that Bucky could have told anyone having seen the guy for five minutes once, T’Challa is all very Kingly and regal.

It’s frustrating. He’s down one arm and basically kept in constant isolation to protect him (and more importantly, anyone who might interact with him should some fucker use his codewords). It’s not that he feels left out. I mean, he was the one who was too chicken to let Steve find him. He can’t feel jealous of Steve and his friends when he basically put up signs saying “no solicitors”. So he doesn’t feel abandoned when Steve goes haring off and returns with a veritable menagerie of talented assholes.

Not at all.

He sits in his rooms. The wide open living area with attached tiny kitchen, the three bedrooms and the three huge bathrooms. It’s far nicer than most places Bucky has ever been, even as the Soldier - not opulent, just very clean and nice. The furniture is beautiful, and somehow both ornate and simple. Bucky doesn’t really know how he feels about it. He likes that the couch is an alligator if you look at it just right, though.

In the first couple days he’s a guest, Wakandan neurolinguists and psychologists sit him down and try to devise plans with him for reconditioning. It reminds him of being in the chair and having technicians bustling around, discussing his brain. He blacks out at one point, but apparently instead of killing anyone he just passes out in his chair and mutters to himself while seizing. So, nothing to worry about.

After that, he’s too aware of what he could do to them. He asks if Steve could be there when they talk about his brain. Steve probably thinks it’s because he’s afraid of the scientists (he gets that sad, simpering look that makes Bucky want to trip him face first into a wall), but Bucky is more afraid of what he’d do to _them_.

He flat up refuses to see the shellshock analysts Steve keeps trying to set him up with. He doesn’t need a damn analyst telling him he’s fucked up. He already knows.

So. It’s a work in progress.

At the end of the two months, the Avengers Redux have been stolen and are mostly settled into their lives as refugees in the most heavily guarded country on Earth. 

Steve actually starts spending time with Bucky. Turns out the modern, gleaming dignitary apartment rooms Bucky’s been staying in are actually Steve’s, too. Steve’s just been basically on the run trying to figure everything out, too busy to spend time there aside from stilted conversation with Bucky about his “treatment”. 

If Bucky had been expecting to suddenly know what to say to Steve when they finally had time - he is sorely disappointed. They circle each other warily. Bucky always finds himself being curt and kind of mean. Steve constantly has this brittle, too-polite persona pasted on. 

It’s awful.

~ ~ ~

Bucky doesn’t hate Wakanda. It’s a beautiful place. The amount of art and science that is involved in every aspect of the culture - it’s breathtaking. It’s just - he can’t really go wandering around. So he mostly stays in the palace. He’s been escorted out once or twice, Steve a reassuring presence at his side, but as used to being the odd man out as he is these days… It’s different. Steve’s been picking up Wakandan from forced proximity, as he actually _talks_ to people. Sure, his click phonemes turn into choking sometimes, but he’s still a hell of a lot better than Bucky is at the moment.

Standing in a market while Steve fumbles his way through a transaction would be funny if he actually understood what either of them were saying.

And yeah, he’s good at languages - but he just. He doesn’t want to. No one’s told him he has to. It’s not like he’s allowed to go mingling anyway. So fuck it.

He lives in his and Steve’s rooms, and he’s got access to books and the internet. Good enough.

~ ~ ~

Steve has seen the Vibranium wire splicing tournaments. They take hours and it’s pretty much knot-work, but it’s surprisingly exciting. Apparently, if you want the full strength of Vibranium cables, you can’t just use crimping sleeves to make a loop in the end. You have to weave the metal back on itself in an eyesplice. The problem is, this is a pain in the ass with steel. With the properties of Vibranium, it’s something you have to practice for years at. One wrong move and people have been known to actually _poke their eyes_ _out_ with the bouncing unraveled ends. A master splicer can do an eye in ten minutes, no matter the diameter of the wire. The special Vibranium tools used flash through the air, the wires tremble and fling their splayed ends.

These days, Steve feels like those unraveled wires. Like all the bits of himself are spread out and quivering and liable to poke someone’s eye out if he can’t keep himself under control. [ 1] 

He’s tired. Tired of constantly doing the wrong thing, supporting the wrong people. And then getting his teeth kicked in whenever he tries to do right. 

At least this time, even if he’s lost some, he’s got people to back him up. T’Challa has been a good friend to them all, has been kind and gracious beyond measure. Sure, it’s mostly because the guy has a moral code stricter than Steve’s, and is very aware of how Wakanda’s involvement with the outside world is progressing - but Steve appreciates the kindness, regardless. He challenges Steve’s opinions, forces him to explain himself - yet he’s always respectful and willing to hear the other side in an argument. He isn’t the person Steve was expecting when he first saw him try to cut Bucky down, that’s for sure.

Steve has been rattling along with no steam left by the time Sam and the others are safe in Wakanda. And when all is said and done - he just sits with Sam for a while. Steve still in the stealth suit T’Challa had given him for the break out, Sam in his Raft-issued uniform.

They sit in Steve’s living area on a gorgeous embroidered lounge. They drink tea. Sam, who is angry as hell for good reasons. Sam, who has had his faith in justice tested as much as Steve. Sam Wilson who has every right to want to never see Steve again.

Sam Wilson, with his lips pursed, with two months of imprisonment fresh on his mind, sits there and pats Steve on the back. And has the gall to grin cheekily and ask him what’s new.

Steve has to hide his face in his hands and laugh, because he’s pretty sure he’s also going to cry and he’d rather not be obvious about it. So he tells him. About Zemo, and all the little blanks in the story that Sam has been missing.

“I’m sorry,” Steve laugh-sobs into his palms.

Sam sighs, put upon, and says the only thing that could really make Steve feel better, “man, stop being so self-important. I don’t regret what I did. And I _know_ you’re not conceited enough to think I did it for you. I didn’t believe in putting my name down, so I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but after - “

“Steve, just - shut up. I may think your guy is kind of a dick, but the whole thing was a shit-show waiting to happen. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let _Ross_ have a controllable super soldier, even if we’re ignoring the psycho who wanted revenge - to clarify, I mean Zemo, but Tony also - so just. I don’t blame you, okay? We both did what we thought was right.”

Sam rubs his back for a couple minutes in silence and Steve manages to get his shit together enough to wipe his face in his shirt collar.

Which is when Bucky says, “am I interrupting?” in this strangely catty tone. Steve whips his head guiltily over his shoulder to stare at Bucky, leaning in the doorway. Too late, he realizes his face is probably red and blotchy from crying and he feels like an asshole for breaking down in what is also Bucky’s living area.

Sam, beside Steve, is raising his eyebrows and standing up, “yeah, okay, have fun with that. I’m gonna go check on Scott. Guy was literally kissing a tree last time I saw him.”

And Sam beats it. 

Steve gets it, you know. Sam had been the one to take him aside when they were on the search for Bucky, give him all the information he had on PTSD and boundaries and respecting other people’s coping mechanisms. And then he’d said: “I’m not going to be your therapist. And I’m not going to be his. But if you need help, I’ll help you get it.” 

Sam also not-so-subtly does _not_ like Bucky. There’s a lot of reasons it could be, but Steve doesn’t have any idea how to ask. Their acquaintanceship amounts to a couple hours with Bucky’s unconscious body, a few hours in a tiny car with Bucky trying to look inconspicuous in the back seat, and one ridiculous airport nightmare spent fighting together. Steve thinks he understands, maybe. Sam was already in a foul mood before Bucky ever woke up with his arm in a vice, and Bucky sure ain’t always easy to be around these days. 

They probably just got off on the wrong foot, he reassures himself.

When Sam leaves, Steve picks at the embroidery on the sofa and tries to smile at Bucky. Bucky scowls at him and disappears back into his room.

Steve is very tired.

~ ~ ~

Living with Steve is weird. Not just because Bucky has been alone for so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like to live in someone’s pocket, but because he keeps thinking he’s supposed to remember how this works. 

Except, he never really shared a place with Steve alone. After Sarah died, Steve had stayed with the Barneses for a couple years, until one day he’d told Bucky that he was moving out in a week. Bucky had been shocked and a little angry that Steve was springing this on them. Except apparently he’d already told Bucky’s folks months ago that he was planning on leaving. After that, Bucky had once moved in with Steve for six months in 1941 - ostensibly because he was fighting with his father, but actually because the guy who rented the other room in Steve’s apartment had disappeared the night before rent was due, and Steve was having a hell of a time scrounging up enough for next week. 

Steve is a decent roommate, really. Mostly leaves Bucky alone, except to offer him food. Everyonce in a while, he’ll try to start a conversation and Bucky just doesn’t have the patience or - he just can’t, so he runs off to his room until he hears Steve leave. Bucky knows it hurts him, but he just doesn’t know how to have a conversation anymore without saying something sharp and making Steve look like a kicked puppy. Every few days, Bucky summons up the ability to smile and say something nice. Maybe a joke, rib Steve a little for the way he looks when he’s trying to cook, that kind of thing. Maybe talk about fighting pigeons for roof-space during New York Summers, ages ago. He’s not sure if it’s a kindness or if he’s giving Steve emotional whiplash, to be honest.

He feels like a raw nerve all the time. 

The first time it happens, it’s stupid. Really stupid. He’s being short with Steve, who is in a surprisingly good mood. Or was when he came back from helping that witch-girl with practicing her powers.

(Steve spends most of his days trying to help overpowered individuals not hurt other people, apparently)

Steve is just sitting there on the floor in the living room, writing down some bullshit - probably about how best to avoid blowing people up with alien-artifact-granted mind powers - maybe humming a bit.

Bucky stands in the doorway of his room a long moment, before he blurts out, “shut up.”

Immediately cutting his humming off, Steve looks up at him, wide eyed.

They both freeze.

Bucky feels like a first class asshole.

Steve gives him a small smile and says, “okay, Buck.”

…And that’s how it starts.

~ ~ ~

It’s not that he’s always _mean_ about it - it’s just that he usually is. He’s not doing it _to be_ mean, though.

Anytime he starts feeling antsy in his skin, or Steve is pissing him off, he’ll just tell him - something. Tell him something.

“Sit on the other chair,” he says to Steve when he wants to sit on the one that faces both the windows and the door to the rest of the palace. Steve smiles, nods, gets up and sits down in the one Bucky is pointing to.

“Leave your door open for now,” Bucky says, opening Steve’s bedroom door wider in the middle of the night (it’s alright, Steve wasn’t even in bed, he was just sitting on the covers staring at the wood floor) because Bucky needs to be able to hear him from across the hall. Just for a couple hours. Steve nods, says, “okay.”

“Get me a glass of water,” Bucky demands when Steve gets back from meeting a literal alien (who is also a God and doesn’t understand what the hell a Sokovia Accord even is). Steve asks if he wants ice in it. Bucky does.

Afterward, every time, Bucky feels the back of his neck prickle hotly. Like shame and satisfaction all rolled into one. 

Time was, belligerent little Steve Rogers would have done just about anything to avoid doing something someone had _told_ him to do. Now, Steve argues with Kings and witches and Gods, but he does anything Bucky says. No matter how stupid or arbitrary.

Bucky knows himself well enough to know he’s getting high off the power of it, but oh fucking well. He doesn’t exactly have a lot of choices right now. If he wants Steve to stop crossing his legs that way? And Steve is so damn happy to oblige? Then why the hell not.

~ ~ ~

They give him a new arm. It’s surprisingly similar to the old one, but without the star. Bucky kind of misses the star. It’s lighter, which is nice. Doesn’t pull as much. They switched out some of the anchoring pieces, so there’s no longer as much deep ache in there. The second best thing is how smoothly the plates move together. He can actually run it through his hair without catching anything, now. _Wakandan technology_.

Oh, and it will apparently go completely dead if it registers someone saying his codes. And will give him a sedative if he says the word “comply” within ten seconds of hearing the words.

The sedative was Bucky’s idea. Steve got all pinchy faced about it, but he said he was proud of Bucky and grabbed his meat-shoulder all friendly-like. So, not too shabby.

The surgery is long and awful. Bucky comes out of anesthesia midway through, but thankfully he was strapped down like luggage on the top of a car - with a hell of a lot of sturdy ties. So they just put him back under. 

Before he goes under, he’s in an ante chamber before the sterile surgical room. Steve is standing nervously at the edges of the room as the scientists get the equipment ready. Bucky, who currently is locked down like Fort Knox, calls out, “hey, Steve. Come over here.”

Steve nervously looks at the scientists as he shuffles awkwardly past their frenzy, edges up to the surgical station.

“Yeah?” He asks, looking more nervous than Bucky, if that’s possible.

Bucky grasps wildly for something to say.

“I missed a hair on my neck.” 

(This is technically true, as when he had half-assed a shave three days prior he’d missed one and now it was a ridiculous length compared to the rest. He’d been too apathetic to do anything about it.)

“I noticed it before I got strapped in. Pluck it out with your nails,” he says, closing his eyes and trying to arch his neck up against the restraints.

Steve lets out a surprised laugh, and after a moment Bucky feels a scrape and pinch to the side of his Adam’s Apple.

When he peeks his eyes open a slit, Steve is staring down at the hair between his fingers, looking wryly amused.

“What am I supposed to do with loose bio-material?” Steve wonders, “they almost didn’t let me in this far. I don’t think I’m supposed to just leave it lying around,” he adds almost defensively as he tucks it into his pocket.

“You can save it for your scrapbook,” Bucky offers.

“More your style.”

After that, Steve is ushered away and then down Bucky goes.

Steve is there when he comes up. It makes sense in Bucky’s groggy mind, because he was there earlier. Also, because they apparently carried Bucky back to his room while he slept. He doesn’t worry about the missed time at all. 

The arm is just dandy.

 

~ ~ ~

It’s not that Steve doesn’t realize that Bucky is kind of. . . Not lashing out, but, working through some stuff. But, it’s not anything wouldn’t already do for him if he knew Bucky wanted it. It doesn’t seem like a big deal to just let Bucky have a few damn choices. It’s not like he gets to decide anything else in his life - even if Steve tries, honestly really _tries_ to make sure Bucky has options - so why not let him have a little control?

He feels desperate for something to do to help, and if this is the only way Bucky will let him? Steve will be there with God damned _bells_ on. 

It seems to soothe Bucky, at any rate. How the hell can he deny him something so simple?

He knows it still shocks Bucky sometimes. Sees the way his eyes will widen in surprise when Steve agrees to something arbitrary and maybe a little over the line. On one hand, Steve’s a little offended that apparently Bucky still remembers him as the Intractable Steve Rogers. On the other, it’s true enough that Steve isn’t always the easiest to get along with. Can be stubborn and willful. 

The thing is, though? Steve never thought he’d say it, but sometimes he is pretty sick of fighting. Especially with friends.

And Bucky… Bucky just. He’s not real well. They don’t talk about it so much, and Bucky has a tendency to play the fool whenever the Wakandan counselors try to broach the subject, but anyone can see Bucky isn’t doing so well. (Even the counselors have pulled Steve aside and told him that if Bucky doesn’t want to get better, he won’t. Steve wants to shake them, tell them they don’t even _know_ Bucky. But he also knows it’s true enough from his own half hearted attempts at counseling with SHIELD’s doctors. God knows they were probably Nazis, anyway.) Bucky’s angry at everyone, except when he’s wracked with his own guilt. He’s lost in memories he admits he doesn’t even know for sure are _real_ , and then blithely describing a childhood Summer day down to the last detail. 

Sometimes he tells stories that Steve doesn’t remember, and when Steve says as much Bucky looks like Steve’s punched him in the face. Then, he spends days pouring over his notebooks. Steve doesn’t see the notebooks, but he can hear the pages turning when he walks down the hall. The sound makes him sweat and his heart race these days. Downright Pavlovian.

~ ~ ~

His therapy appointments taper off to once a week on Thursday at his suggestion. He doesn’t really feel like they do anything helpful, but when he tried to cajole Steve into letting him quit Steve got all depressed looking and said he could if he wanted. Which really meant that he couldn’t. Saturdays, he goes and lets people trigger him and tries to stop himself. Mostly he just ends up with a numb arm. But, it’s a little more frustrating than pants-shitting these days. ‘Oh, what, getting mind controlled? No big deal. You just sit around with your pal and drink tea and forget everything afterwards. No big deal at all.”

Still, with the appointments decreasing and the Fugitive Avengers mostly settled. . . Steve just kinda. Hangs out in their rooms. 

A lot.

Bucky’s days mostly have been going like: 

⁃ Get up.  
⁃ Make sure Steve isn’t in living spaces (because Bucky can’t not be an asshole for the first hour after waking) and if he isn’t, go get another glass of water to hoard with the last few days worth in his room. Maybe snag some food to bring back in there if he doesn’t already have some stashed. If Steve is up: drink from water glass hoard, eat from stash under bed.  
⁃ Wander out into living areas once he feels less punchy.  
⁃ If Steve is there, find a seat that Bucky’s current state of personal bubble can stand and has a good view of whatever Steve is doing. Maybe sit down and read something. Maybe stare out window and think about Wakandan architecture. Maybe stare at Steve.  
⁃ If Steve isn’t there, do pretty much the same things but sulkier and maybe feel less awkward about scratching balls or adjusting self. Not that he doesn’t scratch his balls in front of Steve, but he feels slightly weird about doing it. Mostly because Steve _pointedly_ doesn’t watch him do it. Bucky’s not sure how he does it, but even if Steve is on the other side of the room busy with something else, he can still manage to _pointedly not watch_ Bucky adjust his balls so his thigh isn’t pinching them.  
⁃ When too jittery for existing in same space as Steve, or Steve tries to start a conversation that lasts more than two questions, then retreat to room. It always eventually happens.  
⁃ Write. (Furtively and away from Steve.)  
⁃ Read. Read, read.  
⁃ Actively avoid Steve while none the less stalking his movements, also feel sad and pissed off if he leaves without telling you. (Bucky’ll know he thought about it, because Steve will pause in front of his closed door before leaving without knocking.) Continue to feel pissed until he finds the note prominently placed in front of his door. It’ll have a little cartoon of something irrelevant, usually. Bucky saves them all and sandwiches them between the pages of his filled notebooks.

Then, there came an activity that ranked above all others:  
⁃ If feeling sweaty, or raw, or floaty, or angry, or jittery, or like he’s drowning, or if he starts seeing things, or if he just feels like it: tell Steve to do something stupid and feel a little better. Even if he sometimes still has to skitter off afterward.

But, now. Steve is almost never in the living areas. He’s never up before Bucky. The Avengers usually come to him, now. One or two at a time, they all visit. Filling up Steve and Bucky’s rooms with their voices and smells and suffocating presences. Steve is often in bed when they knock, and he goes to the door still in his pajamas.

Bucky feels a little ashamed for him, to be honest. Which is a bit hypocritical because he usually sleeps in his day clothes and only changes every few days. But at least he sort of _looks_ presentable. Better than ducky pajama pants and a thin, loose cotton shirt. Which is what Steve is wearing the first time Bucky slips up and does the Thing in front of Sam and Scott.

Sam and Scott are sitting on the sofa when Bucky wanders back out of his room. Steve is in the armchair that has the best view of the room and exits.

Steve smiles over at him and Bucky wonders if it’s fake. Steve knows his friends dislike him. He knows Bucky is a pill. There’s no need to pretend he’s glad he came out of his room.

Bucky tries not to glare at the back of Sam and Scott’s heads as he edges over to the kitchen. Which is good, because when Sam notices where Steve is looking he looks back over his shoulder. Sam nods in neutral acknowledgement. Bucky nods back. Neutrally. He carefully doesn’t narrow his eyes, and neither does Sam.

Oblivious, Steve says, “Hey Buck, you wanna come talk with us?” His smile is bright. 

Bucky scowls, feels the pores on his neck and chest prickling with heat.

“Sit there,” he barks, pointing to one further away from the sofa. Steve, still smiling, albeit less broadly and with a small furrow in his brow, says, “sure, Buck. Of course.” He moves over.

Bucky stalks over and takes Steve’s old seat, still warm. He rests his arms casually on the arm rests instead of crossing them like he wants to.

The conversation, apparently about snowcones, stiltedly restarts. For a long while Bucky sits there, listening to the conversation go back and forth, changing topic. Scott talks about how he was really happy that they’ve found a way to sneak him out to meet his daughter, as there’s only so many times being a fugitive can come between him and his family before he’s in “deadbeat dad” territory _for life_. 

It’s a little annoying. Not Scott. Just. All of it.

Bucky endures.

. . .Well, for about half an hour he endures. And then he’s feeling fidgety and he wants them to leave so he doesn’t have to feel like he has to watch them.

“Steve,” Bucky cuts into Scott’s rambling about pugs.

“Yeah, Bucky?” Immediately, Steve is looking at Bucky all cautious like. Eyes all wide and concerned.

“Go get your socks,” there’s silence as Steve gets to his feet, goes to his bedroom and returns with socks. Scott is looking incredibly perplexed, but he often does so no big deal. Sam has his eyebrows raised way up, his mouth slightly open, and his hand is upturned as if to ask, ‘are you fucking kidding?’

Steve sits down, pulls one foot up to the seat edge, and then looks over at Bucky, gesturing with the socks to his feet. ‘Like this?’ he seems to say. Bucky gives a little lopsided attempt at a smile and nods. And then Steve is putting his socks on. Scott is trying very hard to keep a pleasant, smiling face pasted over his confusion. Sam’s face is a rictus of disbelief.

“Anyway, speaking as someone who used to choke on their own lungs half the time,” Steve picks up the dangling thread of conversation, “I think it’s a little cruel to breed physical issues into an animal.”

The other two roll with it, and Bucky sits there feeling a little smug. A little more comfortable. He leans back in the chair. He _lounges_.

The conversation continues for a bit longer before Sam and Scott leave. 

The look Sam shoots Bucky as he leaves is more resignation than anything like distaste, but Bucky still feels like maybe he crossed a boundary.

~ ~ ~

He is _certain_ of it the next day when the Sokovian witch comes over and keeps Steve chatting for _hours_. Bucky hides in his room until he can’t take it, and then he slinks out of his room in the hopes of being vaguely unsettling - without actually being threatening - in her general direction.

She and Steve are curled up all _cozy_ on the sofa. Well, they’re sitting at either end. Steve has the leg closest to her bent up so he can fully face her. Her own feet are wedged under his calf.

“Hey,” Bucky says sharply.

Steve twists his head around like a dog hearing a whistle, all alert and roused from his slouch.

“Yeah?”

“Get me a glass of water,” he says, circling the sofa to sit down in the Chair. Steve’s mouth pinches a bit, but he stands and heads for the kitchen, anyway.

“Sure thing, Bucky.” 

The girl turns to him. For a moment Bucky and she just stare at each other as the sounds of Steve puttering around in the kitchen fill the room.

Once, she offered to try to ‘fix’ his brain. He said ‘thanks but no’. He’d rather gouge his eardrums out so he just couldn’t hear the codes, rather than have her messing around in there.

She raises an eyebrow and tilts her head toward Steve.

He shrugs and smirks.

She frowns. Then, quick as hell and with only minimal red sparking, her heeled boot snakes out and drives briefly into the top of his foot - his sock does nothing to protect it. He doesn’t flinch, but he does frown down at his foot. 

“[What are you trying to do? Break him? Look at him!]” She hisses in rapid-fire Sokovian. 

When Steve comes back and sets the water on the table beside Bucky, they both look up at him innocently.

“I think I am going, Steve,” Wanda says, standing up gracefully and giving Steve a hug. Over his shoulder, she scowls magnificently at Bucky. 

After she leaves, Steve just kind of sits down with a weird half smile on his face and stares at his hands, threaded together in his lap.

Bucky, in turn, stares at Steve. And suddenly realizes what everyone else has apparently been seeing for a long time. 

Stevie ain’t doing so well.

~ ~ ~

Bucky tries to be more responsible about it. He gets Steve out of his room in the mornings. He barges into Steve’s room, starts shaking him, keeping at it even after Steve asks ‘what’s the matter’. Makes him get out of bed. Bucky doesn’t make him put on clothes always, but sometimes he pushes Steve’s teetering body towards the closet as soon as he stands up. It’s a bit of an eye opener to realize that half the time he goes into Steve’s room, no matter how early, Steve is already awake. Just lying there.

He makes him eat meals. (Since when did he start skipping so many meals? How did Bucky not notice it?) Steve’s pride prickles the first few times he tells him to eat something, he actually fucking _declines_ \- as if that’s part of their deal. So Bucky makes sure to always say “make me something with mushrooms” instead of “eat some fucking lunch”, like he wants to.

He tells him to take showers if he hasn't in a while.

He starts to feel... A weird sort of pride about it. The same guilty sort of warmth he'd always associated with finishing Steve's back alley fights, or always carrying asthma cigarettes. He _enjoys_ it. He's always known Steve can get along just fine by his own, but when Steve needs help? There's a horrible little part of Bucky Barnes (not all his flaws started in a Nazi prison camp) that loves being the one to help. Sitting around while Steve had bounced to and fro helping the Avengers and Bucky and having conversations with kings that will affect the globe - that shit had driven Bucky nuts. Somehow, being in charge of telling Steve to be a functioning human being makes it easier for Bucky to do the same for himself. 

This rush of goodwill and pride, no matter how ill-begotten, feels short-lived and like it might suddenly quit him. He tries other things. He starts in on Steve's complete lack of Enrichment.

When he finds Steve brooding in his room, Bucky tells Steve to sit in the good armchair and draw. Apparently he hasn’t drawn in a _long_ while. Somehow, the muttered curses as Steve continuously fucks up are soothing. Bucky actually falls asleep napping on the couch a week or so into his self-imposed Steve Duties. Considering neither of them sleep well, it’s a bit of a shock to wait up to his face pressed into the back of the couch, Steve still scribbling away behind him.

He considers making Steve show him the pictures he draws. However, when he was eyeing the sketchbook in Steve’s hands, Steve had looked up and looked momentarily terrified before schooling his face into a more neutral position. Steve would definitely show him if Bucky told him to, but he sure as hell doesn’t seem to want to. Bucky leaves well enough alone.

After all, he’s got his own books. Bucky starts actually bringing them out to the living areas, when Steve is drawing.

It’s not just memories anymore. It’s trying to figure it _out_. It’s trying to figure out what the hell he thinks about any of it. It’s new things that happen, to make sure he won’t forget. He makes lists of allies. Lists of people he likes but who piss him off. He makes lists of things to tell Steve to do. Lists of things Steve needs to do, and lists of how to make him do them. He makes lists of things _Bucky_ needs to do to keep Steve from worrying. 

He writes down a hell of a lot of things, is what happens.

Sometimes, when he doesn't feel like living in his own head, he asks Steve to read to him. Steve will read for hours, until even his serum-enhanced vocal chords are crackling with use. He'll read until Bucky tells him to stop.

Honestly? Bucky spends about a month floating on _air_. He feels _important_. Like by making Steve happy, he's doing the world a favor. Hell, he even makes Steve go talk to the rest of the Avengers every day. Gives him a time to come back by - to make them food or some other arbitrary bullshit - and sends him out the door.

Bucky is a magnanimous sort of guy, after all.

~ ~ ~

It’s all coming together nice and good, and Bucky’s even gotten some smiles out of Sam! Steve says it’s because he’s stopped scowling at Sam and being rude, but Bucky is _certain_ it’s because he’s been a lot nicer to Steve when company’s over. It’s somehow easier when he’s floating on that molten, victorious feeling of getting to boss Steve around all day.

And then he fucks it all up.

Or rather, he realizes it’s all fucked up. And probably always has been.

It’s the afternoon. Steve’s standing in the kitchen area, lost in his own head as he stares worriedly at a closed cabinet.

Bucky watches this for a few minutes, chewing his lip and debating what to do.

Eventually he says, “sit down,” real even and real calm like.

And Steve. _Steve_. Sweet, _obedient_ Stevie grabs one of the chairs around the dining table and sits down so fast the chair screeches on the tile a little. He looks up at Bucky - back ramrod straight, fingers twisted in his lap, with those _big goddamn cow eyes_ \- as if to ask ‘did I do it right?’

And Bucky, who hasn’t touched his genitals for anything more than hygiene or basic comfort adjustment, he feels his dick shift in his two-day stale jeans. The dick he hasn’t fondled since Bucharest, and even then only a handful of dissatisfying times.

Bucky panics. There’s no sugar-coating it. That’s why he whips around like his ass is on fire and books it to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Bucky leans back against the door and grips himself through his pants, the hard line of his zipper both a welcome and unwelcome sensation pressing into him.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ silently over and over as he undoes his fly. Grits his teeth as he reaches into his underwear and palms himself.

What has he been doing. What the _hell_ has he been doing?! To Steve?! The guy who would do _anything_ for him - his breath hitches and he has to wrap his hand around his shaft or he’s going to _die_ , the shameful fucker - and who is already so fucked up he’s forgetting to feed himself?! He hates how hot the idea of it is. He could just walk into that kitchen and tell Steve to get on his knees. Steve would do it - Bucky’s told him to do stranger things in the past couple months. 

Steve would drop to his knees and look up at him, with that look - and maybe, maybe he’d _say_ it too. “Was that it?” Steve would ask, so fucking _eager_ to please -

(Bucky’s breath is picking up, his hand moves faster over his cock. He has to pull his underwear down because the nudge of his sensitive head against the material is maddening) 

\- and Bucky would tell him to undo his fly - no, first, he’d say, “yeah. That was good,” and Steve would _beam_ -

(Fuck, Fuck, those crinkly pleased eyes with a bashful little smile, maybe. Bucky shoves his pants and boxers down further with his metal hand, slides down the door until he's sitting with his bare ass on the cool wood floor.)

\- and _then_ Bucky would tell him to undo his fly. Steve would look up at him, confused at first. Bucky would have on this real stoic, bland face, not - not so Steve wouldn't understand what he wanted, but 'cause Bucky wouldn't want to influence his decision. Steve would slowly get it, what Bucky was saying. His eyes would widen at first, maybe. Then he'd get that, fuck, that determined face on, and he'd undo Bucky's pants and his fingertips would hook over the band of Bucky's boxers, but he wouldn't, not yet. He'd look up at Bucky and he'd wait for the next command, eyes all pupil, mouth open already waiting for -

(Bucky slams his head back against the door and hopes to god Steve ain't in the hallway, because there's no way he wouldn't be able to hear Bucky panting like a dog in heat.)

\- for _Bucky_. And Bucky would say something, fuck, something smooth, who knows, "You gonna be good for me, Stevie?" Fuck, not that. Well, okay, maybe that, wouldn't be smooth, but what if Steve actually did? What if he liked it? He'd nod his head real slow, still staring entreatingly up at Bucky. Like there's nothing in the world he wants more than Bucky to let him suck his dick. So Bucky would be a real gentleman, let Steve have what he wants, all, "Go on, Stevie. Suck - " egh, no, " -lick- " ehhh, " -take it- " fuck, he couldn't talk like that to _Steve_. No. He'd have to say something kind of sweet, a little classier, like, "open your mouth wider". And Bucky would have been stroking Steve's hair all this time, yeah, and then he just slides his hand down, thumbs at Steve's wet lips - he's been licking them, waiting for Bucky to let him have it - and Bucky slides his other hand down his stomach, drags his underwear over his cock - already so hard, so fucking _purple_ and swollen just for Steve - and he says, real gentle, real _benevolent_ , "go on."

(Bucky slaps his free hand over his gawping goddamn mouth, he's making _awful_ sounds. Worse'n anything Steve ever did back when his lungs were a pair of broken wheezy accordions. His hips try to rise off the ground instinctively, but considering it's his own hand giving the pleasure it achieves nothing more than his legs tangling further in his pants. )

\- in this perfect imaginary kitchen, Steve would slide his mouth down on Bucky's cock like there's nothing he likes better. His eyes would flicker, he'd moan gratefully. He'd somehow have the skills of a professional prick swallower. He'd grab onto Bucky's hips, thumbs tracing that ravine under Bucky's obliques, practically choke himself trying to swallow as much as he could. Eventually, he'd have to use his hand, too. His spit all over Bucky's cock, his hand a firm twisting presence on Bucky's base. His face would be bright red, not just from not being able to breath normal, but 'cause he _liked_ it. He'd be so lost in it, his eyes would close, he'd be moaning around Bucky's cock like _he_ was the one getting sucked. And Bucky would reach down and just - just get to touch his hair. Not pushing or pulling or nothing. Just feeling. Gentle. His hand, his _hand_ wouldn't even get caught in Stevie's hair. Not that Steve would mind. Stevie would practically melt as soon as Bucky touched him so soft -

(He's been waiting for it, after all, hasn't he? Never touches. Not like Bucky used to. Steve was never so brave about touching. He's barely touched Bucky since finding him, they haven't even _hugged_ , and Bucky? That's his fault. That was always his job, he had to make sure Rogers wasn't in his own head. )

\- even if he'd had the old soviet one, the one that had beaten Steve's face in, even if Bucky forgot himself and tried to run it through Stevie's hair and got caught - Steve would still be practically sobbing around Bucky's cock just to be _touched_ -

Bucky comes all over his own hand, with the imagined sensation of Steve servicing his cock jangling through his head, hating himself. 

He feels sweaty and disgusting and a bit like something Steve Rogers would scrape off his shoe. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

When he finally gets himself cleaned up and shuffles shamefacedly back into the kitchen a half hour later, he's not expecting to find Steve still sitting in the chair, exactly as he left him.

Steve's head snaps up, his eyebrows pinched together and raised worriedly, his eyes _shiny_.

"Are you - Buck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Whatever I did, I won't do it again. Just tell me, please," Steve _begs_ , hands clutching each other in his lap, face a depiction of panicked concern.

Bucky is actually speechless. His dick stirs and he pinches his thigh viciously with his metal fingers.

"It's fine," he chokes out, "fine, just fine, 'm sorry." He grabs a bag of jerky from a cabinet at random and turns right around and goes back to his room. At the doorway he pauses. He curses himself out, turns around, walks back to the kitchen.

Steve is staring into middle space, chewing the hell out of his lip - it's red and swollen from the abuse and _don't think about it_ \- but his eyes dart to Bucky as soon as he turns the corner of the hallway.

Bucky fiddles with the corner of the bag of jerky. "Don't worry about it. Just - go to bed, alright?" He waits for Steve to nod and then rushes back to his room. He listens at the door and hears Steve's slow footsteps down the hall, his bedroom door open and close.

Bucky slaps himself in the face with the bag of jerky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The bits referred to here are metaphorical. His physical bits, especially those euphemistically referenced bits between his thighs, have not had many chances to poke anyone in the eye. [return to text]
> 
>  
> 
>  **Random notes:**  
>  I kind of want people's opinions on how they read the characters. I know what I was trying to go for, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. Any kind of criticism is gonna be met with joy, trust me. Even if it's crazy negative, I'll just be glad to read someone's opinion.
> 
> I know Sam said “man” too many times. This is probably my Californian dialect coming through. If you ever want to reassure someone that you don’t hate them/you are being casual and relaxed, you shove in “dude”s and “man”s. This is tricksy, as they can also mean “fuck you buddy” if said the wrong way. As in “maaaan, c'mon. *glare* *general Californian distaste for your existence*”. Anyway. 
> 
> I also almost spent like, a thousand words describing Wakandan culture and architecture. But, it really didn’t fit the tone. I was gonna go into like intimate detail of why Wakanda has extra rooms in the palace for visiting dignitaries considering it was up til very recently an isolationist country and still kind of is. Was gonna talk about the furniture and what kind of influences Wakandan carpentry and decor utilized. 
> 
> And then I didn’t. Depending on who you are you are either going “wtf, gimme my Wakandan culture” or “THANK GOD this author didn’t make me sit through their fuckin’ architecture headcanons when I was promised two-dummies-with-depression fucking.” Sorry and also you’re welcome?
> 
>  
> 
>  **Regarding Dubcon/spoilers:**  
>  \- Bucky does some pretty hinky shit in this first chapter. He bosses Steve around in a way that isn't really appropriate and tests Steve's boundaries. While Steve feels that he is fully capable of saying "no" to any of it, both he and Bucky are at least peripherally aware that Steve is afraid of setting boundaries in their friendship. Bucky kind of jacks of to this very idea, in fact.  
> \- Future hinky business: Steve notices Bucky is into his submissiveness and plays it up to sort of "seduce" Bucky, despite not really being into the powerplay himself. He ends up playing it up so that Bucky thinks he is into it in the same (sexual) way, but just really wants the intimacy/comradery they've been enjoying lately. Other stuff, let's see... I'm almost certain there's gonna be all kinds of sexual/physical/personal boundaries that are going to be crossed. I'll be keeping mores descriptive notes at the bottom of each chapter and updating the tags, but I feel I should warn you guys about it in advance. *shrug*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wants to be a gent, Steve is goal-oriented, and our heroes frolic and hold hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things: 
> 
> 1) if you're worried about future content for this fic, see [this post for more details.](https://fowlprose.tumblr.com/post/144971564435/future-content-warnings-for-doing-so-under-the)
> 
> 2) I'm looking for betas, [ here's some more info.](https://fowlprose.tumblr.com/post/144971339250/beta-search)
> 
> 3) In this chapter, there are several lines about Bucky masturbating and experiencing arousal as a minor. It's pretty non-graphic, but just a heads up.

There are whorls in the cabinet, dark lines marking seasons for whatever tree it once belonged to. 

Steve came in here for something to eat, but he keeps feeling his mind wander. He keeps coming back to cyclic thoughts about Wanda and adjustment. Today, Bucky had shooed him out the door as usual, telling him to come back to fix lunch for them both. Steve had felt a little like Bucky was going to buss his forehead, just like his ma used to do when she’d been home before he left for school. 

He’d gone to see how Wanda was faring. They’d discussed her powers and maybe getting back into training more often, carefully speaking around the empty holes where other Avengers had once been in these conversations. And then, in the lull between topics, she had smiled and said she was glad she was getting to see more of him again. Steve had felt self-awareness drop on him like a ton of bricks. Steve hadn’t _meant_ to avoid them, had he? How selfish _was_ he? Wanda relied on him - relied on him to look out for her best interests. And he’s been laying around like he had _time_ for that kind of self-indulgence, Jesus.

The real problem isn’t Wanda’s ability to role with the punches, to live with culture shock and political boundaries and lost families. The problem is that Steve has the gall to feel guilty about his own selfish behavior, to mope over his failure instead of fixing it. He’d been - absent the last few weeks. Since things had been going so well, he got complacent. The same selfish way he’d always been back when he was between jobs or feeling under the weather. Staying in bed and forgetting to do simple things, forgetting to check in on Mrs. Samceno downstairs - he’d been doing the same damn sort of things. 

His mind keeps tripping itself up, trying to figure out how he can make it better. What he needs to do to make it alright. Not that he can _fix_ anything, God no, but he can try to make it better for her, at least. He considers options, how best to help her integrate while not imposing on their hosts hospitality. How to make her feel welcome without overstepping her bounds. He thinks about activities she would enjoy, thinks about how to be more cheerful and supportive, how to give her something more -

He doesn’t even notice Bucky come in. When Bucky tells him to sit (instead of just standing there like a lump, _hell,_ Rogers) Steve snaps out of it and rushes to follow, hoping his expression hasn’t give him away. Just because he was thinking didn’t mean he had to stand there scowling, make Bucky nervous or nothing. Still, even though he’d been prompt about it - which Bucky always seems to like - when he looks up at his friend, well. Bucky’s face goes surprised for a moment, then dark, frowning. In next to no time at all, Bucky has turned about, turned the corner, and stalked back down the hall to his bedroom. The sight of Bucky’s jaw and fists clenched snaps the band that had been pulled taught by Steve’s thoughts.

Hell, he’s just screwing everything up today. 

He’s suddenly absurdly aware of the edge of his palms, resting in lap. The rough weave of his pants against his nerves. His entire body feels like too much. 

Steve doesn’t actually know what to do with himself. He considers hunting Bucky down, asking him what’s wrong. Imagines himself knocking at the door he hasn’t crossed since the surgery for the new arm, feels visceral panic at the idea of Bucky getting angry or worse, upset and defensive at having his space invaded. Imagines the silence as Bucky skirts the rooms, avoiding talking to him just like those first couple months, before the Raft break out, before Bucky started feeling _safe_ with Steve. Steve _can’t_ go back to that.

Even if he just goes to his room, he’ll have to walk down that hallway. Maybe hear the damn scritching of pens on pages. 

With serum enhanced hearing, he can hear the distant thump in Bucky’s room. Hear a low groan. Whatever demons Bucky is expelling tonight, it’s not a good scene.

Something in Steve thinks - maybe if he stays here long enough. Maybe if he shows that he’s trust worthy. He can _prove_ it to Bucky. Prove that he’s not going to - to push for more from him, or ignore what Bucky wants, or just - Steve doesn’t even know.

But he sits and waits. And when Bucky comes, he looks like something the cat dragged in. Wet from a shower, tired eyes, muscles jumping in his cheek when he clenches his teeth.

All Steve can even think to do is - God, it’s stupid, he knows - is apologize. Words bursting out of himself before he can stop himself. Anything to make it alright, to smooth whatever he did over. Whatever stupid thing he did or face he made or thing he said that made it happen.

But Bucky acts like it didn’t even - like Steve didn’t do _nothing_. He _apologizes_ to _Steve_. 

Steve could _scream_.

He feels numb as Bucky turns away, jerky clutched in hand like a lifeline. He keeps running over scenarios, ways he could fix it. Every damn action seems like it will just lead to something worse, so he keeps sitting. Waiting for the magical thought that’ll tell him what to do, the way it is in a fight. When he can always calculate exactly how to throw the sh - how to move to get the results he wants. 

(Steve used to worry about fighting with anything but his fists, the way a Tough Guy Should. The only damn fights he’d ever won when he was small were with teeth and quick jabs and the ungainly flail of legs. To be proud was to lose, to win was to be a cheating little rat. Sometimes, Steve hates himself for the way he always took black eyes and a worried mother over being a rat.)

Not proud enough to fight past a closed door and wring an answer out of a hurt friend, Steve sits there until Bucky sweeps back in seconds later and tells him to head to bed.

Oddly, it feels like benediction. 

Steve sleeps restlessly. In the morning, Bucky will tell him to get out of bed and he’ll take it from there.

~ ~ ~

It’s past 1300 when Bucky opens Steve’s door halfway, skulking through with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the floor. Steve, not surprisingly, is awake and sitting on the edge of his bed facing the wide windows. His windows face West and Steve never uses the darkening feature. After the sun starts its descent it’s always so bright in here. At the sound of the door, he twists back to smile weakly at Bucky over his shoulder. Light catches across his half turned face. His lower lip glistens with spittle, red and a little swollen from being worried at.

Bucky grits his teeth and attempts to smile back.

He’d spent the night alternating between beating himself up for touching himself to the thought of his only friend and telling himself it was just his fucked up head. The worst part is that, yes, he does remember pretty much everything. Remembers every kill of the last seventy years. 

But some things still slip around a little bit.

He consults his notes. Tries to be real methodical. Here, where he’s written about love. There, where he talked about sex and perfume. This entry on being an egotistical shithead who gets off on the vulnerability of others. 

Ha. If only his books were that organized.

He loves Steve. He loves him the way he only ever loved his sisters (he’d loved his folks, especially his mam, but his dad had been boozy and still hurting from the war, and his mother had been by turns Bucky’s greatest confidant and then nigh inscrutable to him). He can remember feeling jealous and petty over Steve. Sure, Steve had never had any close friends aside from Bucky and maybe a couple people from the art school - but Bucky had always been sore at the way Steve would sometimes go off on his own, too busy with his own crusades to think to bring Bucky along. He can remember wanting to tie him to a chair to make him just _stop_ \- but he can’t remember wanting Steve naked and asking Bucky to please just let Steve be good for him. Well, okay, he can remember wanting Steve to beg to be released, promising he’d sit there and play marbles or go dancing or whatever stupid bullshit _Bucky_ wanted to be doing, but that hadn’t involved either of their mouths or the sticky cling of sweaty skin.

And _sex_ , oh yes: Bucky remembers sex. Bucky can remember being a kid still, just grown enough that sneaking into the bathroom at night to touch himself away from the prying eyes and ears of little sisters seemed the sensible thing to do. Can remember being older - with his own room - and feeling embarrassed about getting stiff while Steve was sleeping over, snoring away in the bed next to him. Remember being drunk and seedy, indiscretions of a charming guy snuck into a women’s boarding house (in his mind the house blends with a safe house in Croatia, crackling paint and weathered slats, a road beside which a fig tree was always heavy with fruit). Remembers the dates that ended with just a kiss, the sweet curve of a waist under his palm. Remembers the heat of red lips, the waxy feeling that remained even after he’d rubbed off the rouge of it. 

As well, he remembers what he always thought of as _feeling flush -_ not just with money, or drink, or a girl, but with the feeling of having everything just right. When he had money, when he looked good, when he knew the right dances, when he could pick up a sweet girl and show her the time of her life - Bucky had loved that. Feeling like he was some kind of character out of a novel - some handsome member of the night set - and like she’d be thinking about him for _ages_. Knowledgeable like the experienced club folk, wise to every social circumstance, and most importantly to her individual preference. Once upon a time, Bucky had loved nothing better than to show someone _else_ a good time. Not just with girls - he’d loved being the son who always bought the best presents for his mam and dad, the big brother who knew exactly how to make his sisters feel like they were princesses instead of the daughters of a guy who was slightly well-off for a Brooklyn mick, the employee who always did the books right, the friend who always knew how to have a good time. The asset with a perfect record and unmatchable skills. 

(More than the memories of kills lacking emotional context, the thought of his jealousy over the creation of the other serumed soldiers makes him sick.)

Sometimes, he used to think that was why he and Steve got along so well. Because while Steve hated to have done for him as much as Bucky loved to do for others, Steve was like Bucky in that way. Steve never liked to put someone out if he could help it, always wanted to take the worst job. Always wanted to be the “Man with a Plan”, as it were. Yeah, maybe he wouldn’t let Bucky show him a good time, not the way other kids would crowd around a charming and clever boy and unofficially elect him leader - but he’d do one better. He’d share the hatching of an idea with Bucky, argue with him until they both settled on something they were okay with. 

Sometimes Steve would drag him along on some ill-fated adventure, and even afterward, with a black eye and dirt all over his second best coat, Bucky would know he’d been part of a good story. Would always like the person he played when he was with Steve - maybe not a smooth guy with all the answers for a night on the town, but a good guy. A guy he’d buy a drink for, probably.

Sometimes he could convince Steve to go out, sometimes they’d eat at the automat and Bucky would be clever. Steve would laugh with food in his mouth, palm over his lips to be polite like Sarah taught him, and Bucky would feel on top of the world even with the worst hangover in New York. After, Bucky could slip a dime in Steve’s coat pocket if he grabbed him real hard on the shoulder with his other hand and shookSteve hard enough to jumble him, and it would be almost like he’d paid for Steve’s meal. It wasn’t because Steve was weak, or like a girl, or needed it or something - but Bucky _knew_ he’d probably bought eggs for that crabby old Italian woman that lived in his apartment building, and he _did_ kind of need it, and anyway Steve was belligerent about charity so you had to be _sly_ about it. Bucky had _liked_ feeling sly about it. Liked feeling flush about taking care of Steve, who was too good by far to let Bucky pretend to be as clever or worldly as Bucky wanted.

(Sometimes one took the other somewhere and the other _hated_ it. Because Steve hung with the real political art crowds who all thought they were some emblem of Truth and Justice and Champions of the People, whereas Bucky liked taking girls out for a Good Time and no dame had looked anything but crooked at Steve Rogers since he’d stood up for Ida Hacoby’s horrible haircut in second grade. But it was always time spent with good friends, so it was all right. His mind skittered past other places Steve has taken him, other places he’d never meant to take Steve. He was trying _not_ to make it that kind of night.)

Bucky remembers knocking on Steve’s front door and darting past his mother to sit by his bed when he was in a bad way. Remembers how important and good he’d felt when Sarah had handed him a cold cloth to hold over Steve’s forehead. Steve had grumbled of course, and Sarah had really only done it so Bucky would stop pestering her for something to do, but Bucky honestly had never felt as good as when he’d been allowed to hold a soggy rag over a combative and rheumy-eyed Steve Rogers.

Bucky doesn’t _think_ he thought of Steve like _that_. He’d never had anything against fairies or the drag halls, not the way some guys had to spit about it to show they Most Definitely Weren’t. But it had never really been a choice. _They_ could do it. But you didn’t _do_ that. Not if you wanted your family to still be yours. Maybe some rich guys could waste their youth like that, with their socialite ma looking the other way, but not the guy living with his mam and dad until he got a wife. You could love your friend. You could want to show him amazing things, want to feel flush and proud for doing your Neighbor a favor. You could want to be his friend forever. You could die for him. But you couldn’t do all that and then _also_ want to put your tongue in his mouth. He’d seen Steve naked a thousand times, had _taught_ him about touching himself, hell. Steve’s body had been like his own. He could appreciate the sight of it, but it wasn’t done to think about it like that.

And there, perhaps was the crux of it. James Buchanan Barnes, Man About Town with a Well-to-Do-for-the-Area Family wouldn’t have, but Bucky the Ex-Assassin with a Brain Made of Nazi-Soviet Taffy might. Bucky back then might have gotten stiff at his best friend’s cow eyes staring up at him from where he’d been told to sit, but he’d go have several strong drinks and make a girl laugh. He wouldn’t take one look and then go take care of his dick. 

(Bucky isn’t entirely sure his old self was in the right, though. At least his hand is a sure thing.)

But the problem isn’t whether or not Bucky Barnes used to want to lick Steve Rogers’ everything. It doesn’t really matter. 

The problem is that it’s after noon, and Steve has been sitting in bed waiting for Bucky to come get him. Bucky wonders, almost hysterically, if he’s even had a piss. Does he have to tell him to do that, too?

The problem is that Steve looks so tired all the time and Bucky just wants to tuck him into bed for a nap. _Just_ wants to pull down his pajama pants and make him come, writhing on the mattress. Wants to pull the sheets up and make him all cozy. Wants to talk to him until Steve can’t say anything but little hums of agreement.

Kind of wants to come on his face and watch Steve sigh happily, sleepily, at the mess. Wants to clean him off and kiss his forehead, pet his hair until he goes to sleep. That’s all. Just all that.

It’s a pretty fucking big problem.

Bucky smiles grimly at his friend and, trying valiantly not to be a piece of shit, says, “hey, you hungry?”

~ ~ ~

Steve blinks suspiciously, not quite sure if Bucky’s having him on or not.

It’s strange to realize that the grand majority of what’s come out of Bucky’s mouth lately that hasn’t been couched as a demand has been either: about his physical and mental appointments; a grunt of indecipherable emotional expression; or a monosyllabic reply. 

“I could make you something,” Bucky offers awkwardly, smile dropping.

The stilted camaraderie of meeting up with Bucky amongst the mess of the Accords had transformed into a sort of tense atmosphere where any attempt at communication by Steve was met with horrible grimacing attempts at smiles or avoidance from Bucky. Steve could ask about whether he’d considered the proposal about audio disruptors for the triggers, but heaven forbid he ask Bucky where he’d been since D.C., or even something as simple as what he thought about the book he was reading. He’d learned more from sitting in on the sessions Bucky still asked him to go to. His counselor at least had been able to ascertain Bucky had spent some time in Chile before Bucharest. 

Steve had been so desperate for any kind of interaction that the demanding nature of Bucky’s new communicative skills had been a relief by comparison. An easy way to share space with Bucky without making him duck and take cover every time Steve opened his mouth. It was on Bucky’s terms, but that’d been fine with Steve.

Certain that anything he says could set Bucky off, Steve replies slowly, “sure. Sure, yeah, that’d be good.”

He stands up and rounds his bed, cautiously. Bucky is still hovering in the half open doorway, his face stuck in that sulky frown of his, clutching the edge of the door with his right hand as if the bulk of it is a necessary shield against Steve’s presence. Steve stops a couple feet away, unsure if he should keep going or -

Bucky stares at him with that frown for another moment before he seems to realize he’s blocking the way and shoves the door open fully, backing away into the hall.

It’s an, ah. It’s an interesting meal. 

Bucky sort of - keeps phrasing everything like a timid question. 

“Do you want to sit down?” 

“Do you want some water? No, don’t - I mean, please. Let me get it for you?”

“Are you okay with palach- with um, crepes?”

And the awkward little grimace smiles he keeps flashing Steve. Jesus.

Steve had thought the sulking avoidance all those months ago had been bad. This is painful in an entirely new way. And Bucky won’t let him - no, worse, Bucky keeps _begging_ him not to help. Steve is going out of his mind, not sure what to do but _let_ Bucky go on with this strange performance,

The crepes turn out to be something more like a pancake but they’re good. The real topper for the whole affair is when Bucky won’t even let Steve spread preserves on his own pancake-crepes. He stands over Steve - who is twisting his hands in his lap and trying _hard_ not to just grab it out of Bucky’s hand - and spreads some fruity spread all over his food like he’s his ma or something. Steve finds himself unable to contain the pithy little “you gonna hold it up to my mouth, too?” that comes out.

Bucky’s reaction kills what little mirth he was getting from the situation, though. He flinches and drops the knife like it’s burned him. His metal hand, which had been bracing the jar, squeezes and the jar cracks a little. Bucky drops that onto the table, too, and takes a huge step back. Steve watches this all with wide eyes, wishing desperately to take it back and let Bucky arrange the wooden fork in his hand if it makes him feel better.

“I swear I wasn’t!” Bucky blurts, less cool in this moment than he had been when faced with a UN ‘Psychologist’ for assessment. 

Steve has no idea what to say. “Okay.”

“I just,” Bucky runs his right hand through his bangs, frowning when they stick to a bit of preserve on his fingers. 

Steve waits, but nothing else is forthcoming. His mouth pinches as he stares up at Bucky. Bucky’s face grimaces back at him.

“I don’t know what you want,” Steve admits. He can feel his voice raising a little in irritation and panic, but can’t stop himself. “I don’t know what to do. You liked it when you told me what to do, right? That was good?” The expression of distaste on Bucky’s face deepens and his eyes dart side to side like he’s looking for a quick getaway. Steve feels his inevitable failure in this moment waiting to crash over his head. “I really don’t mind,” he rushes to say, “it’s fine. Can’t we just do that? You liked it, right?” 

God, he hopes that Bucky hasn’t been waiting for him to just joke and argue like they always used to. Has he been letting Bucky ride herd when Bucky just wanted him to act like they always used to? Has Bucky been waiting for Steve to stop treating him like an invalid who has to be treated with kid gloves? 

“I didn’t mean - I wasn’t trying to, to say anything by not arguing?” Steve tries desperately to get _something_ comprehensible from this mess. 

“Stop, Steve, just - Stop.”

Bucky closes his eyes, runs his hands over his face, bites his lip, and flings his hands about a foot in front of him, palms upraised. And then he grunts. Steve has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to get from that, but luckily Bucky opens his eyes and his mouth in the next moment.

“Look, we gotta - I gotta say some things, alright?” His voice is a little rough, a lot resigned, but at least Bucky doesn’t sound _terrified_ anymore. 

He sits down at the table across from Steve and takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth, but before he says anything he suddenly closes it. As if remembering something, he glares over at Steve, “eat your damn palachinki, Steve.” 

He quickly adds, “If you want to, I mean.”

Steve slowly lifts up a bite and chews. It’s good. He tries to smile approvingly at Bucky. 

Bucky scowls back, expression unchanged. Great.

“Okay, so. Look, I have to say that I’m sorry I’ve been pretty - I’ve been a real ass,” caught mid-bite, Steve shakes his head, letting out a muffled ‘no’ around his upheld hand. Bucky smiles wryly.

“You don’t gotta protect my feelings on this, Steve. I’m not an idiot - I mean, I know I’m a little fucked in the head, but I knew I was being a jerk.”

Steve swallows some water to get the cloying sweetness down his throat, “Buck, I never thought you were an idiot. But, you weren’t being a jerk. You just…” he searches desperately for something tactful, “…were expressing control over your surroundings. You were just setting your boundaries. It’s my fault I didn’t set mine.” He tries to imbue his words with that authoritative flair people always tease him about. Steve has never been more grateful for the excruciating discussion he’d had last month with Sam, where they’d discussed appropriate boundaries for friends. Specifically, and at great length, how Bucky was obviously purposefully trampling Steve’s. While Steve still disagrees, he likes being armed with terminology that makes him sound trustworthy.

Bucky must have his number, though, because he shoots him incredulous look. “Don’t talk shit, Steve. I knew you wouldn’t say no so I told you to do things just because I liked it,” he says bluntly, almost challenging Steve to argue. “You never would have let me get away with that before.” Perhaps realizing how accusatory that sounds, he hastens to add, “I mean, I get why you did. And it’s on me that I did it. I acted like a jerk and I liked it. I’m sorry,” he looks down at the table, still demolishing the palachinki without purpose.

Steve is - Steve’s actually pretty angry. He feels like Bucky is Wrong. He feels bristly and - suddenly - like he has a hell of a lot to say to Bucky, even if Bucky _does_ decide to take cover.

“Well. Does it matter?” He says lowly, almost scolding.

Bucky looks back up at him, wide eyed.

“Does it matter if I wouldna done it back when? You liked it, right? I did too,” he admits, “I have no clue how to make things…okay again. Maybe it was kind of annoying, but I liked that you liked it. I liked that I knew what to do. No matter where your mind was-“ he falters briefly, afraid he’s put his foot in it, but blunders on, “you’d just tell me what to do and then I didn’t have to worry if I was doing right by you because you made the choice. It was good. So what if I woulda got burnt up about it before? I was always angry about _something_. God, Bucky, I’m pretty sick of getting up in arms about things, I’ll tell you that. I know you’re not gonna - you’re not gonna make me do anything wrong…” 

The brainwashed elephant in the room trumpets into the awkward silence. 

“Even if it’s stupid or embarrassing - if it made you feel better, I’d do it. I really would.”

“It’s not that simple. The things I wanna - it ain’t good.” Bucky is looking past Steve’s head.

Steve doesn’t know what to do with that. He feels like he’s scrabbling at sand with a sieve in this damn conversation. “Then what is it, Bucky? What do you want to ask me to do? You want me to kill a guy?” He asks bluntly. “You want me to slit my own throat? What _is_ it that’s so damn bad?” He’s trying so hard not to raise his voice, but he’s just ending up choking his airway tighter and tighter. 

“ _Jesus_ , Steve. It’s not - I’m not - I don’t want anything like that. Just. It’s not fair what I want. I already take everything else - “

“- well then it can’t be that wrong! And I don’t care, you’re not taking anything I don’t want to give, I don’t wanna _have_ anything I can’t share with you!“

Bucky gives Steve a humorless smile, “yeah? And what if it _is_ wrong? What if I ask for something so - just, fucked up. What are you gonna do, Steve? You gonna pull a Van Gogh if I want?”

Steve stares back, squaring his jaw. “You gonna ask me?”

There’s a tense moment where Steve is almost certain it’s gonna happen. Bucky’s gonna ask him the worst thing he can think of, just to prove a point. Steve is gonna do it, just to prove a point. Whose point it will be exactly, he’s not certain. He imagines Bucky telling him to gouge out his eye, imagines the strength he’d need to use on the fork. Wonders what he’d be trying to prove.

Bucky snorts, breaking the moment. He shakes his head. “You’re actually insane.”

“I wouldn’t,” Steve tries to reassure them both, not sure if he’s hitting the mark. Not sure if he believes himself. “If it was really bad, I wouldn’t. I’d just say, ‘leave off it, Buck’ and that’d be that.”

“Just like that?” Bucky asks lightly.

“Just like that. I’m just sayin’ that…that I know where to draw the line. I wouldn’t let you take that weight. I wouldn’t do that to you,” he says earnestly. Because that’s the truest part - if he thought Bucky would be fine with it and it didn’t hurt anyone else, Steve probably _would_ do almost anything. But if Bucky would feel guilty over it…He couldn’t do that to him. He wouldn’t.

Bucky purses his mouth and Steve is so prepared for more fighting that he almost doesn’t register the gritted out, “okay.” 

Steve feels his spine relax a little. “Okay?” He asks, just in case.

“‘S what I said, alright. Okay, okay!” Bucky throws up his hands, flinging a bit of palachinki off the tip of his fork. 

Steve smiles. He has to look down at his plate for a moment so the giddiness from the victory doesn’t manifest as the shit-eating grin it wants to.

“But if we’re gonna do this,” Bucky begins severely, and Steve glances back up as innocently attentive as he can, “you gotta tell me, you gotta tell me ‘leave off’ if you don’t want to. No matter if it’s something you’d normally do or if it’s licking shit off a cat’s ass. You _have_ to tell me to knock it off if it bothers you.” Bucky’s left hand taps against the table to emphasize his point.

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, aware that they are possibly entering the sort of roommate negotiations he’s never really imagined. Do your dishes, rent on time - those were things he’d talked about with old roommates. Not when and how they were allowed to tell him to dress himself or eat. “But I want a rule, too.”

Bucky looks stricken, “you don’t - you’re not just doing it to bargain for - y’know, for me not to be an asshole, right?”

“No! No. Hell. Like I said, it’s easier to know when things are - anyway. I just want…” he trails off, aware that this is going to be more than a little embarrassing. Still, Bucky’s laid himself out. Steve can too. “I want to be able to talk to you - “

“- we talk,” Bucky interrupts defensively.

“Not just about your arm or your head or food, Buck. I mean. You don’t gotta tell me everything. But I want to actually talk to you. I want to know what you’re thinking. You can even tell me to ‘leave off it’ if you want, I just don’t want to feel like asking you a question is gonna upset you,” Steve is desperate for any of it, really. If Bucky likes that Wakanda has flying busses. If he wants a new notebook. If he prefers carpet or wood flooring. What he thinks about being a prisoner of fucking circumstance would be nice to know, but Steve isn’t asking for miracles. 

Bucky gives him a sad, guilty look. “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine,” he says softly.

Steve chews his lip, waiting for the moment to settle a little before he stirs them back into action. If he’s gonna do it, he’s gonna do it _right_. Can’t lose the momentum. “What exactly do you like about it?” He finally asks when it seems Bucky’s melancholy is shifting into something a little fonder and hopeful.

Bucky pulls a face, “what?”

“You know, what do you like? When I do what you tell me. How can I make it better? I know you don’t like it when I look at you sometimes. Should I look away when you say it? Or can I look at you?” 

Bucky’s brows are rising higher with every word. He’s looking vaguely panicked. 

Steve plows on. “Do you want me to prompt you? Like, ‘should I get dressed’ sort of thing? Or do you want me to wait for you?” Steve has always liked having a _goal_. Setting it into terms of ‘how best to obey Bucky’s orders’ gives it less of a feeling of futility and more of a sense of, of - of _action_. “I mean, I know you were always sore I got the officer’s rank,” Steve grins cheekily, trying to lighten the mood, “If you like, I could call you ‘sir’ - “

“ _That’s fine_ ,” Bucky interjects hastily, making Steve feel a little like he’s said something rude at a party and now he’s being hushed up, “I mean, no. No thanks, pal, that’s fine. Just, just do it however you like.”

“But I - “

“Steve,” Bucky groans, burying his head in his sticky hands, elbows on the table, “ _leave off it,_ would ya?” 

Steve feels the sting of it hit him like a slap to the back of his knuckles. Abruptly he feels embarrassed and stupid, his cheeks hot. He’d thought they were finally starting to talk, but maybe they’d just found new ways to say what they’d already been telling each other for months. He looks down at the table, peeling the dry skin from his bottom lip with his teeth.

He hears the scrape of Bucky’s chair scooting back, hears - and feels through the vibrations of the floor - him round the table.

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly behind Steve’s left shoulder. Hovering like that, Steve is far too aware of him. It’s kind of oppressive. Like having someone bury you in sand - being able to feel each granule but not being able to move.

“I just want to do it right,” Steve says, probably a lot more mutinously than Bucky deserves for doing what they’d agreed on.

“I know.” Bucky’s hand comes up behind Steve’s head and for a moment Steve isn’t sure if Bucky’s going to cuff him upside the head. But he doesn’t. He sets his hand on Steve’s right shoulder. It anchors the anticipatory buzz of his presence there, the way Steve’s body wants to lash out at something standing behind him. He feels the soothing weight of it through his chest.

When was the last time Bucky touched him? It can’t have been so long ago. 

It feels like a long time. Steve lets out a stuttering breath when he realizes he’s been holding it. Bucky graciously doesn’t comment, just squeezes his shoulder.

“Eat your food, Steve.”

So he does.

~ ~ ~

Bucky spent two years hiding from Steve because he was fairly certain he was an irredeemable shit show. He’d been trying so hard to get himself to a place where he could feel proud enough to walk right up to Steve, be the kind of guy Steve deserved as his friend. 

He’d dreamed of it, sometimes, in those first few months. Thought about walking up to Captain America one day, smiling and normal and good and _nothing_ like the asset. In his fantasies he’d had a nice haircut, a charming demeanor, a cheeky grin, and two flesh arms. Eventually, he’d realized he didn’t even _want_ a nice haircut, that he liked his hair. Eventually, he’d realized that he didn’t want to strut around like a rooster like Bucky Barnes circa the 1940s sometimes had, he wanted to hold himself like he didn’t want to be looked at. Eventually he’d realized that if he’d really wanted to be that guy that maybe he already would be. Eventually he’d realized he wasn’t gonna be waltzing back into Steve’s life - the prodigal friend returning just as he’d left Steve, sans one arm. The fantasy had faded into a sort of anticipatory dread. A realization that he’d never be able to be the Bucky he’d cooked up for himself.

The Bucky Barnes who would be _terribly_ tragic and faithful to what he believed in, who had been a victim finally freed - he didn’t exist, not really. All that really existed was the filthy fucker groping at his best friend in the kitchen because he doesn’t know how else to take the sharp edge off both of them. Before, maybe he would have felt warm fondness patting Steve on the shoulder. Now, he can’t help but feel like he’s holding Steve down. Holding him _in_. Keeping Steve from bouncing out of his skin. It’s a bittersweet sort of comfort for Bucky, who feels like he should be going to confession every time he touches Steve.

He _had_ wanted to feed Steve. Could imagine standing over him, slipping forkfuls into his mouth. Wiping his mouth off afterwards. Can practically feel Steve’s cheeks under his thumbs as he smooths out Steve’s smile lines. The feeling of warm liquid blood through skin on the pads of his left one, the pores of Steve’s face and the prod of stubble under the ridges of his right thumb’s print. Giving himself something _else_ to put in his mouth.

Yet, it’s Steve who turns to him after cleaning up and points out there’s still preserves in his hair. Bucky who tilts his head forward so his bangs dangle down between them. Steve who holds a damp rag up to his hair and gently starts cleaning it off. 

Bucky who panics and feels himself start to lose his fucking grip. Who thinks about sitting down to put some space between them, thinks about sitting while Steve is standing over him giving him maintenance and - thinks about telling Steve to kneel so it’ll be a little less grotesquely nostalgic but then _has to back out of that thought like it’s made of needles because no_.

Bucky reaches up with his left hand before he even thinks about it. “Can I -“ he grabs onto Steve’s wrist and Steve starts to jerk back.

“Do you want me to -“

“- no, just - “

“- sorry, I shouldn’t have -“

“No, I need to -” Bucky keeps hold of Steve’s wrist loosely as Steve cautiously wrings water through his sticky hair with the cloth.

He feels that nervous razor edge and tries to think of something to say that isn’t going to make him feel awful later.

“Stop,” he says eventually, at a loss. “Give me the rag.” Lowering Steve’s obligingly-easy-to-move wrist, Bucky takes the rag in his right hand and finishes the job briskly. Standing there holding Steve’s wrist and dabbing away at his hair, he knows he probably fucked it up. The furtive glances he shoots up at Steve just show him calmly waiting, curiously watching Bucky’s metal hand still holding his wrist. 

~ ~ ~

They sit silently in the living room after everything in the kitchen, sharing space for hours without barely a word. Steve lays on the floor, sprawled out on his stomach and bludgeoning his way through an essay on Wakandan child services on his tablet (the use of an inter-language dictionary is necessary every few seconds). Bucky is on the couch, scribbling away. The noise sets Steve’s hairs on end, but Bucky’s foot is braced on the back of his thigh and it settles him somehow. If Steve could have known how to express what he wished for when he realized Bucky had dragged him from the Potomac, it would be exactly this moment. Just sharing company with Bucky, knowing things were mostly alright between them. 

Bucky doesn’t send him out into the palace. Steve doesn’t go. The guilt still left over from yesterday nags at him, makes him feel like he should go find Wanda and Sam and try to be… better somehow. But when he looks anxiously at the door for too long, Bucky’s foot jostles his leg. Steve turns back to the essay and tries to focus.

That day, Bucky makes those little pancake-y things for their lunch _and then he also makes_ _dinner_. He lets Steve help this time, at least. Tells him to cut and sauté the vegetables while Bucky watches the mutton and yams in the oven. Every once in a while, Bucky steps up beside Steve and grabs him at the junction of his neck and shoulder with his right hand. It’s a bracing, strangely nostalgic sensation - something Bucky always used to do. 

It isn’t the best food Steve has ever had - probably because it’s been a while since Bucky has cooked anything more than a fried egg - but it’s pretty damn good. 

Afterwards, Steve feels jittery and sluggish at the same time. He’s so worried about mucking it all up that he leaves Bucky in the living room to go to the bathroom, but then just stays in his room. Pacing.

A few minutes later Bucky is hovering in his doorway once more, looking less hesitant and more determined. Steve pauses his pacing, self-conscious and awaiting whatever is going to come out of Bucky’s mouth next.

They stare at each other for a moment, assessing.

“Get dressed. Or, at least get your shoes on,” Bucky says at last, disappearing back into the hallway.

With both of them in shirts and jeans, they meet in the living room. Bucky looks a little embarrassed as he asks, “so, are we actually allowed to leave the palace?”

Well, _Steve_ is. He’s pretty sure King T’Challa would have something to say if he took Bucky out without at least notifying him they were on the move - in advance. 

Bucky must sense his hesitation. “Or is there somewhere in the palace where we can go? I want - we should move.”

Steve thinks. “There’s a place. It’s not really used much. Er, His Majesty -“ it stills feels weird that he actually knows a _king_ let alone talks to him on a regular basis “- lets me use it, but I think it’s mainly for use by dignitaries. I think he just doesn’t want us wrecking anything.”

(He does surreptitiously text both the King and Sam to cover his bases, aware that hauling a barely stable super-soldier around the palace without warning might be an issue.)

~ ~ ~

Bucky’s always known that Steve is bad at being cooped up. The antsy way he’ll wear circles in the floor, the way he’ll get sensitive to sounds if he hasn’t been outside in a while. Hell, Bucky can’t really blame him. Bucky spends most of his time in the same handful of rooms, occasionally venturing out to the medical facilities, but even he spends several hours at night doing random calisthenics. Just to move. To stretch. To do anything but sit there. Super serum’s a hell of a drug, turns out.

So, Steve takes them up to one of the higher balconies of the palace. The sun is just falling over the edge of the horizon. 

Bucky says, “c’mon.” He takes off.

And they _run_. 

Past arching gazebo-like enclosures with fighting rings, past sprawling gardens, past towering statues of stern-faced panthers (some depicted mid-snarl). Bucky looks back over his shoulder every once in a while, hair whipping in his face, to see Steve looking bright eyed and caught between breathing and laughing. It’s the first time Bucky’s actually moved like this in months - it feels pretty fucking great. They skirt the edges of the building, circling back to keep running. Bucky’s oddly reminded of running with a dog - he keeps thinking, ‘where do I take him next?’ 

(Bucky has no memory of ever walking a dog. He wonders if it’s just something he knows from cultural osmosis, perhaps some childhood task for a neighbor, or if some Hydra mook ever had the asset walk their attack dogs out of laziness.)

Bucky turns on a dime in the middle of an open area, pulling to a sudden stop, and Steve almost crashes into him. They’re both panting, more so because of laughter than because of exhaustion. It's good for Steve, Bucky thinks, proudly. Probably good for him, too. But the fact that the bags under Steve's eyes are less obvious when said eyes are crinkled with good humor is far more important in this moment.

“Hey,” Bucky says suddenly, quietly.

Steve tilts his head back at him. “Yeah?”

Later, he’ll tell himself it was just the small burst of adrenaline from being outside for the first time in a long while. Just chemicals in his brain from running. It’ll be true, but not the whole truth. Part of it is also the fact that they’re both so fucking _happy_ for once. Steve is smiling and chuckling and panting and - Bucky steps forward to wrap his right arm around around Steve’s shoulders and bring him into a hug.

Steve flinches back half a step.

Bucky feels his heart damn near trip and break a hole in his lungs. He jerks his arm back to his side, immediately stumbling back.

Steve’s eyebrows are pinching inward, horrified. “Shit. Shit, no. No, no, no,” he’s stepping towards Bucky, and Bucky stupidly can’t think of anything but making sure he’s not being threatening so he steps back again, “I’m sorry, no, _fuck -“_

Steve grabs hold of Bucky’s right hand with his own right hand, brings it up and ducks under it so it drapes over his shoulders. Bucky tries to go loose, to let him. His big old body presses close in, chest to chest with Bucky’s. He hooks Bucky’s hand in over his shoulder, drops it there, and grabs for Bucky’s left hand. He clutches it, fingers lacing through Bucky’s metal ones.

“Sorry, sorry - “ Steve’s still repeating frantically the whole time.

Neither of them are good at this. They’re both tense as hell, tucked in against each other like this. Crowding in on each other’s space. Last time Bucky touched someone this close, he was trying to kill them. Even when Steve helped carry him to the jet in Siberia, it wasn’t like this. 

Steve’s forehead lowers the scant distance and rests against Bucky’s, his long hair an itchy barrier between them.

“- sorry, fuck, I’m - I really didn’t mean, I’m sorry -“ Steve is whispering, now.

Bucky snaps out of his panicked guilt and strained body-space invasion reaction. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says, lightly squeezing Steve’s fingers between his own, marveling at the sensation of pressure between each of them. He’s used to touching things lightly with the tips, even with the old one, but this feeling is strange.

Bucky thinks if they just had enough time, they could get used to it. Steve would go loose - would melt, maybe. They’d fit again, instead of hard edges jumbled together. He thinks about telling Steve to stay there. 

Steve backs off and untangles them after a couple more tense seconds where Bucky feels stretched thin, like he wants to push Steve off him - but also like he kind of wants to sew Steve under his skin and never stop touching him. 

“Sorry, I guess I’m just a bit out of practice -” Steve tries to explain.

“Well, to be fair,” Bucky cuts in, dry as bones, “last time I came at you like that I was trying to kill you. Again.”

Steve shoots him an uneasy smile. Bucky matches it with his own lopsided attempt.

They walk back to their rooms, the spaces between Bucky’s fingers aching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleh. Took me a long time to decide to post this, because basically nothing happens this chapter and I kept wanting to add more so there'd be some meat to the thing. Then I realized: literally doing this for my own pleasure, so fuck it. Hahaha! Hope y'all enjoy the 7k of super soldiers having feelings.
> 
> Also, meanwhile some Wakandan security guards are watching footage of this going: "our King keeps the weirdest pets."
> 
> (Meanwhile squared, since I haven't put any of these fics up:  
> T'Challa is busy being a fucking king and taking care of shit and trying to make sure the world doesn't implode. He is having a hell of a time trying to get his sister to stop pretending that she's upset because he's king, and not because their dad just died. Shuri is pissed as fuck (because that's her baseline emotion), but also trying hard to be there for her brother who is probably having a slow-motion breakdown from all his new responsibilities.  
> Scott is living in a teacup in the US for a weekend visit with his daughter.  
> Sam is busy studying Wakandan social services and sending Steve loooong Wakandan Xhosa essays on social science, which he makes Steve try to bumble his way through translating (best way to make Steve Rogers happy is to give him something to do, and Sam is maybe sort of annoyed that Steve's super-serum brain is picking the vocabulary up so fast). He's missing his niece and his giant fleet of pigeons. He's maybe joined a Wakandan bird-racing group. HE REFUSES TO TELL ANYONE ABOUT IT. He writes really long letters to his sister and her family, and makes Steve illustrate them. Every month or so he gets to send them along with Scott.  
> Clint wandered away in the first week, was almost arrested for juggling knives in a transportation depot, and has since been living with a miner and physical education teacher in the rural area around the Mound. Only the eldest daughter of the couple speaks English, the father took French in school and the mother took MaSri. Clint can fumble through conversations with the father in his shitty (as in he is bad at it, not that said style is bad) Canadian-flavor French, and he knows enough Levantine Arabic that he and the mother can sort of understand each other when they remember enough. He video chats with his family using Wakandan tech that Scott snuck out [with permission] to Laura. These videos are watched by Wakandan security experts, and basically all of them think Clint's fucking insane because he's always just seriously injured himself on some Wakandan flora/fauna whenever he has meetings with his family.  
> Natasha has contacted King T'Challa and is like "so, I'm trying to keep everyone from killing eachother out here. Mind if I stop by in a few weeks?" and T'Challa is like "hm. you are on the waitlist. come back when you have some concrete info.")


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky answers the question of how hot you have to be to eat crackers in his bed, Steve is a huge disappointment to himself, and we finally get a little closer to the smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [loveddearle](http://loveddearle.tumblr.com/) helped me by putting up with all my meta babbling, and [boldlyluckycheesecake](http://boldlyluckycheesecake.tumblr.com/) beta-ed my penultimate draft! Much love goes out to them for putting up with me. <3 All the horrible errors and awkwardness is 100% me, though.

Picture Steve Rogers at age eight, bruised and dirty from yet another fight. Just barely past yet another couple weeks of an infection - it felt like it would never leave his lungs - and so very, very, tired. The air in the schools was chalky and stuffy, the air in the streets was smoggy and heavy, the air in the apartment was stale and stifling. 

It felt like there was no where in New York he could just _breathe_.

Picture him stripping off dirty clothes and knowing he should clean them, knowing that they were his only decent pair of pants - and being too tired to care. Sliding into his bed -

(Always in the sitting room, for two decades of his life. When he was a child his mother would rent the second room to young unmarried women, when he was older he’d always rent apartments with two other guys and be the one with the bed in the living area, and when he was with the Barneses he’d sleep on the couch cushions every night. He would only move into the second room of an apartment a couple years before the war, after a roommate leaves unexpectedly and Steve realizes he can afford it for once. Bucky always thought it must be nice to be a single child, so much privacy. Steve Rogers lives a life without doors for a long time before he ever steps into the union suit.)

-feeling exhausted and sore. Waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of his mother washing his clothes in the tub, listening to her quiet sighs as she scrubbed. Still on her feet after hours at work. The exhausting of the day and his sudden guilt weighed on him. He cried quietly into his pillow, feeling like a heel and a horrible son. She sat down at the edge of his bed, still in her stained uniform, and stroked his hair. He kept his face to his pillow to keep her from noticing he was awake and crying like a baby.

The clothes were still damp in the morning but they were serviceable.

It would be a lie to say that it didn’t ever happen again. Because some days Steve had just been too tired to do more than collapse in a heap in bed. But, it’s the God’s honest truth that Steve would feel that tickle of guilt in the back of his skull when he came home to an apartment empty of his mother and their flatmate, that it would send him cleaning the house and cooking up dinner more often than not.

Sarah Rogers had always said he was a good boy, a sweet boy who worked _so_ hard. 

Steve had known he was just a selfish little bastard who hated waking up to choking guilt.

~ ~ ~

Steve is getting used to a certain kind of surrender. 

In the week after everything in the kitchen, he finds himself biting back on knee jerk reactions nigh-constantly. Bucky - despite his reticent behavior the other day - has stepped up the bossiness, if anything. He picks out Steve’s clothing for the day, he shuffles Steve from activity to activity like he’s running a nursery, he makes almost every meal or hovers over Steve’s shoulder directing him through the preparation.

Which is fine - Steve can feel good about giving Bucky something to control, Bucky can feel good about the control.

But this is too much. Steve sits anxiously, feeling like he’s got live wires running under his skin. 

“Please,” Steve begs for the fifth time in as many minutes. He stares at the shifting shoulder blades in Bucky’s back entreatingly.

“No.” Bucky sweeps the mop over a new section of the floor.

“Just let me, just a bit!” Steve flops his head back over the backrest of the sofa. He gives the ceiling a truly devastated expression. 

This, right here? Is _excruciating_.

He hears Bucky stop for a moment, presumable to check if Steve’s sulking has actually killed him.

“Is it really making you that upset?” Bucky asks incredulously.

Steve sits up straight and gives him his best go at a pleading look.

For months Steve had been the one to do the lion’s share of the cleaning and cooking. Bucky, bless his sulky little soul, hadn’t been very concerned with anything but avoiding Steve. It had, actually, been Bucky’s fault - very unintentionally, Steve knew - that there was so much to do. The palace had some neat little gadgets for the purpose of cleaning, similar to the little floor-cleaning robots Steve had seen in the ‘States, but more effective. 

Unfortunately, the ones that cleaned surfaces looked like nothing so much as gargantuan, wrist thick, centipedes. Every time Bucky had seen one out of the corner of his eyes he’d suddenly lunge and crush it - at first with his right hand, then with his left once it had been attached. After grabbing the thing, Bucky would always abruptly look stricken with guilt. It would have been pretty funny, Steve thought, if not for the way Bucky’s expression on noticing the things was a bit too reminiscent of the Winter Soldier on the hunt to be benignly humorous. They’d gone through several of the things before Steve had eventually approached the head of the hospitality staff and shamefacedly asked for some cleaning supplies instead of another replacement.

Steve tries to look pathetic enough to be given the mop.

At Steve’s woeful expression Bucky gives him a disbelieving, indulgent smile. And then he flicks the wet mop head over so it flops grotesquely over Steve’s bare feet.

“Help me by lifting your feet up. You’re in the way.”

Steve tries not to feel utterly disgusted by the clammy, dusty, water on his feet as he draws them onto the couch. He’s faced far worse in his life - Hell, he’s had the guts of dead men on these very toes! 

Somehow, being inside a clean room makes a bit of floor water seem as distasteful as slogging through a muddy river. Context is everything.

Bucky lifts the end of the couch with his left arm - with Steve still on it, even - in order to swipe where the feet normally rest.

“Show off,” Steve laughs, rolling his eyes.

“Says the hypocrite! How many times I had to see you come runnin’ outta nowhere durin’ the war, just as soon as someone said ‘volunteers to lift this big old heavy object’?” Bucky replies, laughing a little.

That’s one of the reasons Steve’s been trying to get used to the small surrenders. The fact that Bucky _laughs_ sometimes, now. Jokes with him. There’s a cutting of the tension sometimes, somewhere between when Bucky’s told him to do something and Steve finds himself actually enjoying it. 

The other reasons, though? 

Well.

First, there was the way Bucky has started shadowing him out the door when he ventures out to talk to the others. Bucky wasn’t exactly Mr. Social, sure, but Bucky has at least started trying to _smile_ at the other Ex-Avengers instead of scowling in the hopes that they’d go someplace far away. Has started to go outside their rooms for reasons other than appointments.

(Wanda had a worrying tendency to use her powers to - well, Steve didn’t want to say she was messing with Bucky, but a duck does generally quack. Bucky had been surprisingly dignified about the whole thing. No matter how many times he ended up planking in the middle of Wanda’s rooms because his shoes were _suddenly_ unable to leave the ground, he still just got back up and acted as if nothing had happened. Steve had been about to take Wanda aside after the second time it happened and he _saw the damn red, Wanda_ \- but Bucky had just grabbed him by the elbow and shook his head at Steve. Steve suspected Bucky’s patience had been born of years of temperamental little sisters with shifting vendettas. 

That or Bucky is feeling a little ashamed about how stand offish he’d been in previous months. Steve is a little worried on Bucky’s behalf, but he can’t exactly blame Wanda for it. It would be a double standard not to accept that Wanda has her own way of asserting control after the events of the last year.

Besides, he is sure it will blow-over. As Steve can well attest, being stand-offish to the Avengers was a forgivable offense.)

But, perhaps more glaringly: there is the other thing. For consideration: yesterday, in the bathroom, Steve took too long brushing his teeth (he only paused for a damn minute! He was just thinking!) and then Bucky was barging in the half open door, taking his toothbrush, and telling him to open up. It took all of Steve’s willpower to pry his jaw open like the proverbial gift horse, letting Bucky brush his teeth. 

(He can admit that it was kind of soothing. Bucky’s metal hand bracing his jaw, his other gently but briskly running the brush over his gums and teeth. At first Steve had been tense and annoyed, but after a while he’d let himself relax and sort of enjoy it - only to snap back to reality when Bucky lightly patted his cheek and told him - in a stern but amused tone - that he had to stop chewing on the bristles if he wanted this to get done.

It’s happened every night and morning since then.)

How large Bucky’s pupils had been as he held Steve’s face was another reason. The way he leaned in, the point of his tongue darting out to wet his lips. A Reason.

Or, at least, the intimation of a reason. 

Well, Steve hasn’t quite decided if it’s a reason or not. 

Or if he’s being an assumptive ass just for entertaining the notion.

Steve’s not - he’s not _stupid_ , alright? It’s just that in certain cases he prefers not to _assume_.

You can’t just assume that a girl likes you, even if she’s fondled your arms. You can’t assume a sly sideways look is what you think it means. You shouldn’t just assume someone doesn’t like you if they give you dirty looks - not even if you’re pretty sure they left pamphlets for the American Society of Eugenics by your front door. 

You can’t put motives behind certain actions - not unless you know better.

Steve has always had a bit of trouble with this. Because he has the kind of intuition that makes his inklings and suspicions right damn near one hundred percent of the time. It’s tough to tell yourself that Mr. Wilker isn’t giving you the job because your art isn’t the best out of the candidates and not because he hates your damn face - tough because Steve could see even with his shoddy vision that the guy had narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips whenever he’d looked at Steve, had made his voice deeper and harder just for Steve. 

Steve has always been _good_ at reading people. Which makes it difficult. Because no one is always right about these things and Steve knows it. 

But he can’t help but _feel_ sure about it.

So he sees the way Bucky shies away from too much contact. Sees the sidewards glances and the nervous smiles. The way Bucky looks for excuses to touch him, but then keeps his limbs close to himself like he’s afraid Steve’s a hot kettle that’s gonna burn him. The way he gets sulky and jealous - worse than he ever did before - when Steve spends too long with other people. How he’ll sidle up to Steve’s side, even as he’s trying his hardest not to glare at everyone, and try to keep a neutral expression as he provides a physical deterrent to coming up to hug Steve.

It wasn’t like Steve had noticed all at once. It had been little things, ever since a week ago. 

Sure, neither of them were real good at touching anymore, but Bucky had a harder time about it these days. So Steve tried not to use his hands. Bucky got a little nervy about hands. And Steve? He’d just lean up against Bucky or share space. Let Bucky dictate the degree of contact. This worked pretty well most of the time, but on occasion Steve would butt his head down into the curve of Bucky’s shoulder or brush his side against him and - 

It’s not that Bucky seems angry about it. He even seems to try to encourage it - well, he stands there and doesn’t tense up too much, at any rate. Leans in a bit.

…But more to the point: Bucky gets flustered.

And Steve _knows_ from flustered, these days.

It’s not like Steve is _purposely_ trying to goad Bucky into it, either. He’s just… trying to see if he’s right or not. 

It feels important to know. If he’s wrong, that’s all well and fine and he can feel silly for having thought so in the first place. 

But, if he is right, well…

~ ~ ~

Later, when all is clean and Steve’s allowed to leave the couch, they sit down on the floor with their respective books. Well, Bucky sits down with an actual book - some sci-fi novel in Ukrainian as far as the sinister robot on the cover informs Steve - and Steve settles in with his tablet and the ridiculous history comic Sam had sent him on the grounds that he needed to ‘stop binge-reading social science essays in Wakandan’. 

Back to back, they read for a while.

Steve gets bored - he’s not trying to be difficult! It’s just one of those things. It’s - pretty stupid, actually. But something about sitting and just sharing space with Bucky makes him feel loose and easy, like he doesn’t have to worry about his next step. Makes him feel like a kid again.

So, he acts like one.

Steve twists to his right, curls up sideways against Bucky’s back at a steep angle, and bites onto the cloth over Bucky’s left shoulder. His teeth clack against metal through the material, but he nips the bit of shirt between them. Bucky grunts from having his back rest change position so suddenly, having to pull himself upright.

As if someone’s flicked a switch in his brain - with Bucky’s shirt clamped tight between his teeth - Steve realizes he’s being weird and that this isn’t exactly how he and Bucky operate anymore. He tenses, frozen.

He feels Bucky’s head turn, presumably looking down on him. Steve feels embarrassment and shame crawl over him, hot and itchy.

He shouldn’t have touched. He’s being an ass. This isn’t how they do things -

Bucky reaches across himself and over his shoulder with his right hand and pats the top of Steve’s head, ruffling his hair. Steve relaxes. Bucky snorts, returning to his book. 

For a minute or so, Steve just leans sideways into Bucky’s back, mouthing at the cloth between his lips and feeling the weave between his incisors. After a while, he releases it. He notes the distorted wet shape where his mouth was. “Sorry,” he offers, not as sincerely as he perhaps should.

Bucky grunts in reply, reaching up with his left hand to prod at the stretched out wet spot over his shoulder. 

“Nah, ’s fine. Can feel it better.”

Steve rolls his neck up to look at the side of Bucky’s jaw visible from his position.

“What?”

“No, it’s like - the temperature. I can feel the temperature,” Bucky elaborates without really explaining. He sighs, annoyed. “I mean I can feel wet heat better than dry heat. The neural transmitters muffle a lot of temperature change. ‘Cause metal transfers heat too well; I’d be getting a lot of sensory information without purpose. They had it cranked - calibrated real high once, and I almost couldn’t hold a gun because it made pressure less um, impressionable.”

Steve stares at the fingers pinching the wet material.

“Like putting your hand in a rubber glove then dunking it in eighty degree water - it’s a lot more obvious than having the room be that ambient temperature and walking in from outside,” Bucky says noncommittally.

Without really thinking it through, Steve leans over and sucks Bucky’s fore and middle finger into his mouth. Bucky goes immediately rigid against his side. Steve wonders if the only reason Bucky isn’t ripping his fingers out is because he’s afraid he’d chip Steve’s teeth. Steve runs his tongue over the ridges of the plates, wondering if Bucky clenched his finger if they would pinch him.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, high and breathy, “that’s - it feels very - yeah, like that,” he rambles. “Wet heat,” he says, low and raspy.

In the back of Steve’s mind, some part of him suddenly feels very worried. With a sinking sense of responsibility he realizes he’d been right. He needs to stop doubting his instincts on this sort of thing.

Steve slides his tongue between the two fingers, bracing them lightly with his teeth and trusting Bucky not to knock said teeth out with a sudden movement. Bucky arches against him, arm tilting further back towards Steve’s mouth.

Even as part of him feels suddenly tired with the confirmation, another part of him is just glad to know he was _right._ Yet another is just enjoying the way Bucky is tensing up against him, how Steve didn’t have to do anything but suck on a pair of fingers to make Bucky enjoy himself a little. The feeling of the plates shifting minutely against his tongue is lulling - he lets out an almost inaudible hum of satisfaction.

Self-conscious suddenly, Steve lets the wet fingers slip out of his mouth, trailing spittle. Bucky snatches his hand back in front of him. 

Steve sets his cheek against Buck’s shoulder blade, ear to his spine. He closes his eyes as he tries to act like he’s not noticing Bucky’s quick breathes.

~ ~ ~

When he was a little boy his mam had told him never to give a girl attentions unless she wanted them. 

The concept had been so beyond little Steve Rogers, only barely ten - of course you didn’t show someone attention unless they wanted it! Steve had lived by this rule his entire life, after all. If kids didn’t want to play with Sickly Steve, then he didn’t pay them any mind. That had always been his way. 

There was a reason why he only talked to his ma and Bucky - they were just about the only people who had ever _wanted_ Steve’s attention. His pride and his ability to entertain himself just fine - _thank you very much_ \- had made him a solitary but happy child. He never minded that most of the other children weren’t real fond of him.

The idea that he might seek out someone’s company if they didn’t _already_ want him? 

It was pretty laughable. 

It was something that made him feel _embarrassed_ at the thought. There was no way Steve would ever put himself out there to be mocked like that - not a _chance_.

Later, he’d be a teen and watching the other boys thirst after girls. 

He was a little put out, because he knew he didn’t want girls the same way everyone else did. Didn’t _need_ it like his dick would fall off if someone didn’t touch it. He’d be a little bitter with pubescent hormones and jealous that everyone else seemed to find it so easy to play the game - but he was never covetous of anyone in particular. He couldn’t see himself with the girls the way Bucky talked about, couldn’t imagine himself even doing something like holding their hand. It seemed - disrespectful to them, somehow. He couldn’t even try to imagine it without feeling embarrassed and guilty. He could pretend - could imagine the _idea_ of a girl. Someone who’d admire him, who _he’d_ admire. Someone who liked him. 

But, it wasn’t really on the table, was it? So he never thought of any _real_ girls like that.

In college, Arnie asked him if he was a fairy. He was a little offended at first - because the amount of people who’d assumed that about skinny little Steve Rogers, well - but it was a sincere question. And as time wore on the idea was the same as those imaginary girls. He was mostly offended at the idea that he’d ever like someone who didn’t already like him. 

The idea of some guy who liked him, though? He could imagine that just fine. He just _didn’t_ \- because that was asking for trouble. If no one was ever gonna look twice at him, he may as well stick with the imaginary partners that didn’t make him occasionally worried about what the imaginary neighbors would say to the imaginary police. And anyway, there was probably at least _some_ girl who was maybe a little homely and willing to put up with him and didn’t really want kids. But there probably wasn’t a guy willing to ruin their life or get arrested for a chance at someone like Steve. 

Then, there had been the serum. Suddenly everyone had wanted him. It had been a rush - like scribbling a doodle for a print job and having an editor praise it endlessly. 

He felt beholden to it - _wanted_ to give back to everyone who wanted him. Except, it had also been horrible. Because in every dream he’d ever had for himself, the imaginary friends and lovers and families, they’d all wanted him for him. Not for a serum created by a dead friend. Not for a nice smile and the ability to heft vehicles over his head while reciting stump speeches. 

It was still nice in the moment when people were effusive and kind and wanting - but there was a terrible let down afterwards. A feeling of being an impostor. Worse, a feeling that he’d painted over a work he’d loved that no else had liked, and now he was stuck with a piece he despised that was getting critical acclaim.

And then there had been Peggy. Who’d been - 

She’d meant so much to him. She’d been the first one to acknowledge him and ask for _more_. To not just take him as he was, but as he _could be_. She’d understood what it was to want to be more - to strive to be something greater than what people wanted. 

(Sure, his ma and Bucky had loved him and encouraged him - but they’d never understood the same way. They’d always asked him to be a little bit less - or so it had felt when Steve was young and angry at damn near everything holding him back. The truth was somewhere in the middle: yes, they had wanted him to pull back a little. But it was more to do with the efficacy of his attempts to get over his obstacles than with the desire to confront them. They’d wanted him to be smarter about it. Back then it had been so hard to see.)

He’d wanted so badly to be good enough, to be the person she was asking him to be. And when he could - God, there was no better feeling. Than to meet his own expectations for himself and see her smiling over the report. 

Peggy had wanted him - but he’d always worried he wasn’t yet the person she wanted. That it was some future version of himself that would do it all exactly right. 

Even seventy years later he’d worried that he wasn’t quite right yet. That he disappointed her as much as made her proud.

But there is no perfect Steve Rogers just waiting for him to come around and be him and there never would be.

Steve is still trying to knock that through his thick skull after all these years.

~ ~ ~

At this point, Steve has a choice. 

He considers his options.

At the very least, Bucky appears to be sweet on him in some sense.

He wonders if Bucky has always liked guys like that and dismisses the thought as unimportant.

He considers how long that’s been going on in regards to himself and quickly drops _that_ line of thought - with his current information, there’s no way to know. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It doesn’t really affect the outcome of his decision either way. Either Bucky has been sweet on him a very long time but perfectly content with the state of their friendship, or it is recent and simply another aspect of how Bucky feels about him now.

(It’s maybe a bit of a lie that it doesn’t matter to Steve. Some small, ugly, bitter part of him doesn’t want it to be _too_ new, or more importantly _too_ precisely centered around the Winter when he met Bucky in Azzano. Doesn’t want it to have started because Steve grew a foot and a hundred odd pounds. But, it’s true that it can’t affect his decision. Just his feelings on the matter. )

He thinks about whether Bucky is only sweet on him because they’re pretty much the last two standing. Is he the only human being Bucky even counts as safe at this point? Not just to not harm him or take advantage of him - but who can protect himself from _Bucky_? If that’s the reason for Bucky’s affection: does that make it misplaced or dishonest of Steve to encourage it, somehow? 

Or is it the same way Steve could never imagine himself on dates with any of the SHIELD agents Natasha tried to set him up with?

Bucky is being pretty obvious about it. But, he’s also pretty obviously trying NOT to instigate anything. The way he mother hens Steve is more a function of their friendship. 

Steve’s pretty sure at least.

Except for the fact that Bucky gets the most flustered when Steve is letting him have his way or is being _sweet_. 

Is it Steve’s fault for being too - too something? Too easy? Too malleable? Is he manipulating Bucky into liking him? He’s always known Bucky liked it when he let him take charge, it is entirely possible he’s been manipulating the situation unconsciously -

-but it really _hadn’t_ been his intention! He knows it hadn’t.

Though, it is sort of making things easier. Makes things so safe and easy with Bucky - to just let things go a little. To let Bucky get worked up and know that whatever Steve is doing is right enough in Bucky’s books that he _likes_ Steve for it.

Not that that is a good reason to manipulate Bucky! 

If he had, in fact, manipulated Bucky.

Fuck.

It’s just - Bucky seems so much happier and involved since Steve had started surrendering the little details to him. It’s like back with the Howlers - as long as you left Bucky in charge of certain things, he never grumbled as much. Ask him for his opinions on an op, agree with him at certain points so that when you told him the parts of the plan you knew he’d hate he’d be a little easier -

Steve is feeling - maybe a bit - like he sorta might be - possibly - manipulating Bucky.

Or maybe himself, at this point.

~ ~ ~

Bucky is going insane. He’d made his decision to stop being mean to Steve, to start trying to be friendlier. 

To ignore his dick and not try to be _friendlier_.

But Steve seems hell bent on trying Bucky's last tenuous grasp on his mind.

Every day since Bucky guiltily fondled himself to the thought of his friend, he's been trying his best. He's put in efforts to not be so reclusive, to be nicer to Steve's people, to make sure Steve wasn't the only one doing chores. To touch Steve - not like the way he - 

…Touch him _kindly_ and _innocently_.

(Honestly, it's exhausting as hell. He feels proud and less bitter most the time, but the trade off is the way he's jumpy as hell and sometimes he ends up going off into his own head when Steve's around.)

But Steve... _Steve_. He's been trying so hard to be easy, Bucky knows it. But now that Bucky's making his own efforts it feels like Steve is finally letting his own irritation show more. 

Bucky had thought it was hot when Steve rolled over at the slightest nudge of Bucky's will. But this? Steve tensing up for a moment? That look on his face as he considers whether he's going to give in or not? That moment when he used to rush to give in so Bucky wouldn’t, you know, get mad or run off or whatever, is mostly gone. Now there's just Steve calmly examining the fact that Bucky is bossing him around.

…And deciding to give in _anyway._

It's not like a switch was flicked and suddenly Steve stopped worrying - but when he set Bucky off a few times over the couple days after Bucky tried to get them sorted, Bucky tried _real_ hard not to be an ass. When Steve chirped about something and Bucky just _couldn’t_ focus on the words and the room long enough to do it - he just told Steve to leave things alone and it was all okay. Or, well, it was once Steve stopped panicking. 

The less Steve thought he was gonna fuck things up, the more likely he was to make a face when Bucky bossed him around - instead of presenting that neutral stone face or the sad beseeching one whenever he was around Bucky.

(It’s not that the easiness isn’t sexy, but when Steve had seemed so scared of saying no… It had made Bucky feel like an ass whenever he was in an okay enough mood to notice it, which took the edge off the good he got from the situation.)

But even though Steve is hesitating more, he seems to be getting more and more…Enthusiastic about complyi- agreeing. He might hesitate a moment, maybe even frown a little - when Bucky tells him to stop reading his whatever (his bullshit about agriculture land rights in Wakanda or something, last time Bucky checked) and go for a walk with Bucky. But once he’s settled on it, he’s hopping up and leaning into Bucky’s space like he’s being drawn in by a magnet. 

Nowadays he does that a lot. He’ll just sort of - lean on Bucky a bit. 

He fucking _nuzzled_ Bucky’s arm the other day when Bucky set some fruit down in front of him for a snack.

And _his mouth_. 

Jesus.

Bucky remembers being grossed out by the fact that Steve used to slobber all over the end of his pens and pencils as a kid. Bucky would always forget and ask for something to write with while Steve drew and the clammy feel of the chewed up - eugh. Steve’s propensity to mouth things had been a lot grosser as kids, is all he’s saying. Steve had always been so distraught when he caught himself doing it to objects, afraid he was gonna get himself sick like that. So around eight he’d replaced the habit with chewing on the skin over his knuckles - and when he’d gotten teased for _that_ , he’d moved on to chewing his lips.

It was all a lot funnier back when it was just a stupid thing Steve did and not something that made Bucky think about Steve’s mouth. 

And his lips. 

_Extensively_.

Bucky worries about the fact that Steve is back to mouthing the ends of silverware, his sleeve, his collar, his pencils, and more. Because, well. 

It’s pretty obvious _Captain America_ hadn’t been doing it. 

So, if Steve’s back to old habits, it either means he’s stressed out or too relaxed to care. 

Bucky’s just worried it’s like a dog chewing on the furniture.

And he’s also worried because every time he sees Steve’s pink fucking mouth descend on the knuckles of his hand, the wet shine of his spit shining on teeth-marked skin, his brow furrowed as his thoughts are thousand miles away - well, Bucky thinks about those lips coming down around something else and his situation gets pretty fucking fraught.

Bucky puts Steve to bed most days only to go dawdle in the bathroom for an hour. He hasn’t touched himself this much since he was a teenager. He hasn’t taken this many showers _ever_. At least Steve no longer gives him that _look_ when his hair’s getting greasy.

And speaking of Steve’s fucking mouth and the problems he’s causing: the other day? Steve just started mouthing on Bucky’s shoulder! The only thing that had prevented Bucky from making a situation right then and there had been the fact that the girls used to always slobber on his shirt when they were really young. Irene was almost as bad as Steve about sucking on shirts until she was about six. The memory cooled his immediate reaction to Steve mouthing at his ski - his plates.

But as if to up the ante, Steve had gone from sucking on Bucky’s shirt to sucking on his _fingers._ In actual _minutes_! Bucky’d had to fight hard not to rip his fingers out of Steve’s mouth and cause a _dentist necessitating_ sort of situation, right then and there. The wet, hot feeling of Steve idly sucking at his fingers - slipping his tongue along the ridges of the plates where the sensation got weird in Bucky’s neural pathways -

Bucky had had to spend about an hour afterwards just cooling himself down enough to get up and walk away without being obvious about things. Every time he’d thought he was calm, he’d feel Steve shift against his back and he’d be back to square one, digging his metal fingers into his shirt in an attempt to get rid of the feel of cooling spit. It didn’t help that the wet spot over his shoulder took a while to dry, either. 

After that, if anything, Steve had gotten _worse_. It’s like Bucky has shown him that everything is okay, that they can go back to being handsy and ridiculous in the way they always used to be when they were just kids. 

Steve, kicking at Bucky’s feet in the kitchen. Steve, laying his head on Bucky’s shoulder when they’re sitting together on the couch - or hooking their ankles together. Nudging up against him in the hall. 

(Still so cautious in the approach, always slipping forward carefully like he’s afraid Bucky’s gonna call him to heel just for touching him so lightly.)

Bucky knows he’d stop if he told him to. 

(He doesn’t want to tell him to. And not just because Steve might act like a kicked puppy.)

Fucking - _coyly_ looking up at him when Bucky’s just trying to help him brush his goddamn teeth instead of staring at the mirror for a goddamn hour.

Bucky hates himself for how it gets to him, when he should just be a good friend. 

(Sometimes, when he’s feeling really shitty, he thinks it might just be another thing that got fucked up. His brain’s been fried so many times - reading the list of brain injury symptoms is an exercise in trying not to laugh sometimes. Permanent or temporary personality changes? Sudden mood shifts? Was there any likelihood he was anything even _slightly_ similar to James Buchanan Barnes? Was there a single thing that had happened to his body in the last seventy years that _wouldn’t_ bring about those symptoms?)

Bucky honestly doesn’t know what the fuck to do when Steve comes over all docile. Even the kicking is more playful and sweet than anything Serious Stevie had ever done when Bucky teased him. He was always so dour back then -

(Except that’s not true. Bucky _can_ remember Steve being playful, especially when they were younger. Remembers him kicking and joking and the two of their voices cracking with puberty as they yelled at each other until the neighbors complained.)

-but now he seems the model of affection. It’s fuckin’ - it’s messing with Bucky, honestly. He’s not sure if he’s got wires crossed or what the fuck is happening. It feels like when he can’t trust his memories - like reality is shifting a little sideways and no matter what he thinks he’s seeing, it just isn’t quite right.

~ ~ ~

There’s no grand decision. 

It’s not like it’s really even an option, in Steve’s mind. There’s simply what he believes to be the truth of the matter and what he thinks should happen based on those truths.

There are a thousand variables involved. They run the gamut from issues of consent and unequal power in their relationship (in the sense that Bucky relies on Steve to advocate for his existence in a very real sense), to whether Steve is even capable of any sort of relationship.

(Sometimes Steve wonders if it’s not just the romantic ones. He was never a great friend, had never been good at keeping friends. He’d have socialization groups, sure. The people from art school, the series of worker’s rights groups he’d been a part of, the Howlers… But they were always reliant entirely on a shared goal. He wasn’t good at people for peoples’ sake. The only friendship that had ever lasted had been Bucky’s, and even that had owed it’s longevity to Bucky’s tenacity. Without Bucky putting in the upkeep, it sure as Hell wasn’t the same.

Sometimes he gets sick thinking that his friendship with Sam is going to go by the wayside. Guiltily, he’s glad that Sam threw his lot in against the Accords. As it stands, Sam can’t actually stop being his friend until they stop being international criminals. 

Steve thinks, often, that he’s not a very good friend or even person.)

But the two most important variables boil down to: Bucky likes it when he does certain things. Steve likes it when Bucky likes it. 

Everything else is just window dressing.

~ ~ ~

It’s the final appointment for the brain mapping of the trigger words. No more Saturdays unless they go through with the ECT or any of the slew of ideas that have been thrown at him by the Bucky Barnes Brain Committee. Bucky pauses outside the room, watches the scientists talking (presumably about the debriefing) through the glass doors.

Steve pulls up short beside him, silent.

Bucky grips Steve by the elbow with his right hand. Feels the sick panic deep in his stomach. Wonders what the fuck Steve must be even thinking right now. Whether he thinks Bucky is selfish for wanting more time to think about it. Wonders whether he thinks the same way Bucky does: that putting off the decision is just a cowardly way of hiding from it.

“Here’s the plan,” Bucky says out of the side of his mouth and far angrier than he’d intended. Steve’s arm relaxes under his hand; Bucky wonders if it was deliberate.

Steve nods, the movement slight.

“We go in. You get all the details. I won’t remember a fuckin’ thing,” Bucky laughs darkly, because he _does_ have trouble remembering what people say to him sometimes in these meetings and because memory jokes are still pretty fucking funny to him, “and you can explain it all later.” It’s nothing they haven’t already done a thousand times, but phrasing it like a plan makes it feel better. It’s not just Steve helping him because he’s too fucked up to control his own brain - it’s Bucky telling Steve how to handle it.

Steve nods and tenses up again.

Bucky squeezes his elbow, feels the shift of tendons under skin. “What?”

“If you - if we need to go, you - just tap my shoulder.” Steve says it quietly, softly. Looks down like he feels ashamed to be saying something.

Bucky tugs at his elbow good-naturedly, “good idea.” 

Steve relaxes again.

Bucky feels like he can maybe get through this mess.

(At least there’s no more Saturdays. )

~ ~ ~

It gets to Bucky, sometimes. The exhaustion of trying to be in charge of everything outweighs the comfort of it. Sometimes he has to take a break, go be by himself for a bit. 

He knows Steve spends most of the time he leaves him alone in bed or pacing. Knows, because Bucky’s one concession during these times is that they both have to keep their doors open so he can hear everything. 

He knows Steve wont enter his room, so he doesn’t feel like anything is suddenly gonna be sprung on him. But he likes knowing what’s happening out there.

The problem is that it’s two weeks after the Kitchen when he goes into Steve’s room to wake him up for the frankly beautiful breakfast spread Bucky spent the last hour making -

-and Steve tells him, “not today.”

Bucky freezes. The tone isn’t the whiny one Steve uses when he’s going to give in after a little cajoling. It’s this…morose, hard thing.

“Steve, come on,” Bucky tries to come across all authoritarian because he thinks maybe that’s what the situation needs.

And Steve just huddles further into his blankets and says, “Bucky, please.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to do. His head is white noise and all he can think of is that this is his Job, God damn it. 

This is what he’s here for. 

This is what he _does_ now.

So he goes up to the large lumpy shape of Steve’s form on the bed, and grabs hold of Steve’s arm to turn him over towards Bucky.

With his torso pried sideways to face up at Bucky, Steve is pretty obviously not in a good way. His eyes are red and swollen, and he looks so - like he’s gonna accept whatever the fuck Bucky does to him. It reminds Bucky all at once of being on the helicarrier, grabbing hold of Steve to pummel his fucking face in -

Bucky feels the existence of his hands so thoroughly in that moment he can’t even register another body part.

“Buck, just…” Steve starts up softly, but trails off. He keeps up the eye contact the entire time. No coy glancing away or -

Bucky releases Steve and steps back.

Bucky leaves. Bucky, like a fucking chump who doesn’t know what to do with himself, sits outside Steve’s door and panics because he -

Did he just grab Steve? Fuck, he’s such an ass he just -

He is shaking, he realizes. 

He knows he should get up, do something. Go to his room at least.

He just sits there and feels like a real jerk, running his hands through his hair. 

The plates don’t catch. They don’t do that, anymore. He’s not sure why that makes him nauseated.

~ ~ ~

Steve has a bad day.

There’s a lot of reasons. You could maybe point at his living situation with Bucky and say ‘that’s a stress inducer, right there.’ But it’s not the only or even the main reason he wakes up with his heart pounding one day.

He’s been talking with King T’Challa about possibly utilizing Natasha and Maria Hill to help deploy the Avengers from Wakanda or from another safe location. He’s been worried about Wanda and the fact that she’s as reclusive as Steve, but with a far more people-oriented personality that must be suffering - and her _brother,_ Hell… He’s worried about Sam and the fact that sometimes he thinks they’re drifting - and he knows it’s his own fault, even if Sam just laughs and says that he needs to calm down and - he worries about Clint, and Scott, and Natasha, and Rhodes, and Tony, and is _Bruce even aware of what happened or did Ross get to him before he could run -_

 __It just comes down on him all at once one morning before he’s geared himself up for it.

But even as he knows he’ll get over it and rise the next morning with more energy - he’s had so much more now that he’s been less worried about Bucky - his mood affects others.

Specifically Bucky.

It affects Bucky.

He knows Bucky leaves his room in a bad state, but the idea of getting up and dealing with it right now just sounds like a mistake. He just imagines a fight, another argument where he messes things up.

So he stays in bed for a while.

Listens to Bucky’s quick breathing in the hallway.

…

Eventually he has to get up. 

…

He can’t leave Bucky there forever.

So he makes his way into the hallway.

And even though he thought he’d have the ability to say something in the moment, the way it always comes to him when he needs it, there’s nothing there.

Just Bucky looking up at him with wide eyes.

~ ~ ~

It’s over an hour later when Steve’s feet hit the floor. Bucky thinks he should probably stand up, at least pretend he hasn’t been sitting there the entire time.

But he stays. He watches Steve wander blearily out of his room and turn to Bucky. And pause. 

Steve looks so damn _sad_.

Steve sits down beside Bucky, back against the wall on Bucky’s right side, and leans on him. His head dips down low enough to rest on Bucky’s shoulder, despite the length of his torso.

For once, Bucky doesn’t worry about it. He’s just glad that he didn’t fuck things up. He wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulder and shakes him, grounding.

Steve laughs, suddenly and alarmingly.

Bucky knocks his head against the top of Steve’s, make a small questioning noise.

“Nah, ’s just, you used to - never mind.” Steve can’t even finish his explanation, obviously regretting every moment of this exchange.

“I…” Bucky isn’t sure what he’s going to say. Does he tell Steve that he knows that part? That he remembers doing that? Does Steve even know he does? Fuck, what the hell is he - 

He thinks about Steve needing him right now. It makes it easier for things to unravel a little.

“You want to eat?” he asks, tugging Steve’s shoulder towards him. Steve’s shoulders bend in together, loose and easy in a way Bucky knows his own can’t do anymore, not with all the metal along his shoulders and spine.

Steve hums noncommittally.

“C’mon, let’s - you’re going back to bed,” Bucky decides.

They hustle themselves up to standing, Bucky still half wrapped around Steve, but when Bucky is about to cross into Steve’s room he sees Steve’s tense expression. 

Suddenly, the idea of putting Steve back in his room is pretty awful. Like folding up a sweater and shoving it in the back of his closet, doomed to -

“You wanna try my room?” He blurts it out like an inept parent plying their sobbing child with candy - it’s the first thing he can think to offer. Pretty much the only thing he honestly feels any sense of possession about. “It’s darker,” he tries to sell it, awkwardly. This is technically true, as Bucky keeps the windows’ tinting feature on at all times.

“Sure,” Steve offers without anything but the purest form of apathy. 

Bucky sort of herds Steve into his own room, only sparing a small amount of embarrassment for all the books and paper piled on top of the desk. 

(The clothes on the floor he is not even a _little_ embarrassed about. Who the fuck is gonna care if his laundry has wrinkles? Anyway, it’s mostly clean.)

Steve sits on the bed and looks around. He doesn’t look real impressed. 

Bucky grimace-smiles at him.

Steve lifts his legs up onto the bed and in moments is huddled under the blankets, one pillow clutched in his arms and the other covering his head. Bucky wonders if that’s supposed to be a dismissal.

He backs cautiously out of the door.

~ ~ ~

Steve feels oddly distant from the proceedings as he’s hustled into Bucky’s room.

Steve hasn’t been in here since the surgery. It strikes him how much it smells like Bucky. There’s the simple skin smell that he thinks of as Bucky, the acrid tinge of fear sweat, the sharp edge of metal ground into the sheets. Steve flops himself into the bed and covers himself in an attempt to get Bucky to stop looking at him.

Bucky is obviously treating him with kid gloves. The feeling settles heavy and writhing in his stomach, bitter and patronizing. He burrows his face further into the mattress.

He feels really melodramatic and ridiculous. 

“Hey,” Bucky says after a few minutes. The bed dips. Steve removes the pillow covering his head and looks up at Bucky.

“Sorry.” It’s the only thing Steve can think to say. 

It just makes Bucky frown.

For about half an hour, Bucky plies him with food. Takes bits and pieces and edges them into Steve's mouth. His fingers are so careful to stay just far enough away. Steve is reminded viscerally of that day in the living room.

Steve thinks about sitting up, reaching over and grabbing the bits of fruit, meat and various little fried patties of miscellaneous things for himself. But, there’s a mutinous part of him that wants to be as difficult as possible. 

Besides, by the way Bucky won’t meet his eyes and has the leg closest to Steve bent up to his chest? Steve would say he’s probably enjoying it more this way.

~ ~ ~

"Sorry."

It's funny how one word said a certain way can send Bucky careening down memory lane.

(Well, he already knows what ten words can do to him, maybe it ain't so funny after all.)

Steve at thirteen with a fever so nasty he'd tossed and turned and been incomprehensible all night. So sick Sarah hadn't even thrown Bucky out after a couple hours, just given him small task after task - get more water, try to fan some air in from the vent with a sheet, help her roll him over, etc, etc.

But the thing he remembers most is how Steve kept saying "sorry" for hours. Moaning piteously, mostly too feverish to make any sort of sense, and all he'd done was keep apologizing - actually sobbing with it. It had been one of the first times - one of the _only_ times Bucky had seen him cry.

In the morning, when he'd stopped crying and writhing and sweating through sheets - when he was finally responding with a bit of sense - Bucky had cautiously told him what he'd said. Bucky had felt like he'd witnessed something secret and raw, like it would be cruel not to be honest about seeing it.

But Steve, even though he was more with it, he'd just given Bucky a watery-eyed look like Bucky was crazy and said, "well, of course I was sorry. I was sick so people had to take care of me - it's kind of rude."

Steve mumbled it out like it was just good sense, and Bucky wanted to box his ear a little.

But that was Steve Rogers - strip him of reason and boil him down to his secret bits with a fever, and all you'd get is a kid who hated being a burden enough to cry over it.

~ ~ ~

Eventually Steve gets annoyed by the whole thing. The way Bucky is so _very_ careful as he practically spoon feeds Steve like a goddamn invalid. Steve wriggles closer to where Bucky is sitting propped up by the headboard and buries his face between Bucky’s leg and the mattress. Well, okay, more honestly: between the side of Bucky’s ass and the mattress.

Bucky tenses up above him, and Steve can’t help the wicked glee that punctures his anxious haze. He grins into the space between Bucky’s jeans and the mattress.

Steve stays there, the heat of his own humid breath and Bucky’s body a sort of temperature trap for his face. He rubs his cheek idly against the rough grain of Bucky’s jeans.

A moment later, Bucky is grabbing him firmly by the back of the neck with his flesh hand and prying his head away from him, forcing Steve to roll onto his back. There’s a tense moment where Bucky doesn’t let go of his neck, practically pinning Steve to the mattress.

Steve stares up at him, fairly sure his eyes are doing something belligerent.

For Bucky’s part, there’s a lot of worry and no small amount of fear.

“We need to talk again,” Bucky says slowly and carefully, releasing Steve’s neck and folding his hands in his lap, knee blocking them from view for Steve. The feeling of his hand still feels branded on Steve’s skin.

“Yeah?” Steve rolls the word around in his mouth, slow like.

Bucky is staring fiercely down at his lap, not meeting Steve’s eyes even a little bit.

“I don’t think I’m being very fair,” Bucky says after another loaded moment.

“Look, we already discussed this - “ Steve snaps, two sentences into this conversation and already annoyed.

“Jesus, shut up,” Bucky laughs, dropping his right hand over Steve’s mouth.

Steve licks his palm vindictively, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

Bucky’s breath hitches and his hand makes a strategic retreat, clutched to his chest.

“That,” Bucky hisses. “That is exactly what I need to - youthink we got things settled, Steve?” He’s scowling, but at least he’s meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Yeah, I do, Buck,” Steve goads and - fuck, he sees himself right now. He _knows_ he’s being confrontational. But it’s like he can’t stop himself.

“I wanna fuck you.” Bucky says it harsh, just like that. All heavy eyebrows and downturned corners of his mouth. The same way he sometimes reminds Steve that regardless of intent, it was _his_ hands that killed all those people. He says it like a truth - like a done deal.

Steve is so mortified in sympathy for that honesty that he almost buries his face in the mattress instead of setting his jaw and calmly saying, “yeah, I know.”

Bucky looks - Bucky looks _devastated_ , honestly. Like Steve has just betrayed him or something. Steve wonders what the Hell his face had been doing when he said that to cause this reaction.

“It’s not - it’s not _bad_ ,” he rushes to say, propping himself up on his elbow, wondering if it would be better or worse for Bucky if Steve sat up next to him.

Bucky actually _scoffs_ at that. “Oh gee, great. Not ‘bad’ -“

“Oh just - Bucky, come on. It’s not a big deal,” Steve sighs, rolling his eyes.

“I want to fuck you,” Bucky reiterates, like Steve’s _actually_ 98 and is hard of hearing. “I look at you when you’re being nice to me, and I just - I wanna do things to you, I want to kiss you, and feel you up and -” Bucky sounds so _helpless_. 

And Steve has _heard_ Bucky sweet talk girls. He’s _heard_ him put the charm on. 

There’s none of it here. There’s no smooth, easy expressions. No poignant smiles or delicate touches to the arm. 

There’s just Bucky - scared as hell, guilty for lusting after his best friend, coiling in tight on himself.

Steve wants to stop him because it’s almost too painful to witness, but Bucky keeps going, voice cracking, “I want to make you feel good, I want you to like me - I want you to _need_ me. And I know it ain’t - I know you’ve already given me everything else, I’m a fucking _bastard_ for wanting anything more, but God, I do, Steve. So, I know you're a decent guy and you're gonna try to make this not a big deal, but I gotta - you gotta stop doing stuff like this. We gotta stop, it's driving me nuts," Bucky is running his hands through his hair.

"It's all fine with me, Bucky. You can do whatever you like," Steve says as warmly as possible. And to Steve it feels like settling the matter - like that ties things up nicely. Now, Bucky will know that it's alright and he can kiss Steve and Steve won't have to worry about what to do. It feels like giving Bucky a gift almost - just easing his mind a little.

It's a relief. 

~ ~ ~

Bucky can't believe this shit. He was expecting a lot of things - that ingratiating understanding where Bucky could happily wring Steve's neck and hug him all at once for his surprising ability to be understanding; that dogged insistence that it was all in Bucky's head from being cooped up so much; the quiet proposal that maybe they stop touching so much for now -

He wasn't really prepared for Steve smiling up at him like the guy thinks he's a real gent for telling Bucky to have at it. 

He wonders wildly if this isn't some sort of dare where Steve is trying to get him to admit it's all a fib.

"Steve, I don't think you get it," he says finally.

Steve seems to chew on that for a moment, staring up at Bucky. "No, I really think I do. You like bossing me around; I told you that was okay. You wanna -" he waved his free hand, "- fuck me or whatever. I'd be fine with that."

Bucky groans in frustration, "it's not just - I don't just wanna fuck you - I want you. I wanna be with you."

Steve shrugs, "okay."

Bucky lets out another growling groan, flopping his legs out in front of him on the bed and letting his head tilt back over the headrest. He'd forgotten how _obtuse_ Steve could be.

"This isn't something I want you to agree with just because it'll shut me up," he mutters angrily. "You can't just be 'okay' with it. I want to shack up with you - shut up, I know we already - I mean _figuratively_."

"Well..." Steve trails off, "Look, Buck, I don't know what you want me to say. I love you," he says it so earnestly that Bucky is almost a little embarrassed _for_ him, despite having just admitted he was thirsty for a piece of the guy, "and the idea that you - I mean, I might not have thought of it on my own - but I like that you like me. I like the way you get when I suck on your fingers." His tone is so damn _matter of fact._

" _You knew?_!" Bucky hisses. He feels shaky with embarrassment, hot with adrenaline and the memory of the last handful of days.

Steve rolls his eyes, flops back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and folding his hands over his chest primly.

"I'm not an idiot, Buck." 

...And the tired, rigid tone is back.

Bucky makes a decision. He’s too - too _something_ for this right now, and Steve is _definitely_ too something, as well.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," he says, leaning over to place the plate of food over on the floor.

"What? Why?" Steve is grumbling.

Bucky gives Steve an assessing look. Then he leans over and holds Steve's cheeks between his hands. Steve stares back with a look that implies his veins are filled with more piss and vinegar than blood.

"You gonna let me take care of you?" Bucky challenges, half expecting to get slugged for it.

Steve's frown deepens. "Yeah," he says, agreeing sullenly.

Bucky knows it's not really - I mean it's pretty obvious that Steve isn't going soft for the sake of it. But it gives him that hot rush right down his chest.

"Yeah," Bucky echoes. "Look, we'll talk tomorrow. When you're less punchy," he adds, smirking.

Steve bites his lip, likely cutting off a sharp retort. 

Bucky gets a little distracted by it.

The corners of Steve's mouth start to tip upward when Steve notices him noticing.

"Tomorrow," Bucky reiterates firmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was horrendous to write both for story reasons and meatspace reasons. I cannot wait to write the next one, where orifices get fondled and people have fun with their genitals, because that'll be fun and more comedic, haha. 
> 
> Anyone wants to chat with me about this story or prompt me for something else, you're welcome to shoot me a message at [fowlprose](http://fowlprose.tumblr.com/). Or just chat fanstuffs. *shrug* Either way!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys sulk a lot and fondle a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is about three months later than intended! Real life and brainstuffs conspired to delay this. But, after about 10 different rewrites, I'm finally biting the bullet and just posting the thing. Better than letting it fester inside my drafts, haha!

‘Tomorrow’ is Bucky’s bullshit, asshole-ish way of sidestepping - and it burns Steve up.

Steve stews in it. He stews in it all damn day.

All day, Steve’s kept in Bucky’s room. The entire conversation that’s been shelved is an underlying tension running wild around them. Steve knows what Bucky’s been feeling. Bucky knows Steve wants to talk about it. But, instead of letting that happen, Bucky just keeps acting like the whole thing never happened.

It pisses Steve off, honestly.

It’s not like Steve’s an idiot, just ‘cause he had a bad morning.  They could be having this conversation right now - instead of leaving it for later, letting it fester.

Bucky is just being ridiculous.

Bucky is just being a stupid _jerk_.

~ ~ ~

Bucky doesn’t want to kick him out - hell, it feels good, it feels _safe_ , to have Steve bundled up in his room like this. Feels like a good place for him. But, the fact remains: Bucky may feel good about Steve being in here, but there’s no avoiding the fact that he also feels territorial as hell over this space. The idea of leaving Steve in here ALONE? Ha, fat fucking chance.

So, instead, Bucky bustles around trying to ignore the super serum sized elephant in the room. He’s not sure what to do with Steve, who’s a sullen lump in his bed, leaking a palpable miasma of irritation.

Bucky manages to fend Steve off all day. It ain’t easy, but he does it. 

Bucky ducks out long enough to send a message through Steve’s tablet to Sam, says something along the lines of: something’s come up and he’s all good, no need to worry. Worryingly prescient, Sam sends back a message almost immediately saying, “Thanks for the heads up, Bucky” and Bucky’s left wondering how the fuck his textual idiolect could vary so much from Steve’s that Sam could spot him from one damn sentence. 

(He burns to read back over Steve’s messages to Sam, can see the history there, waiting for his prying eyes - but ultimately decides he shouldn’t, less because it would be an invasion of privacy and more because he’s vaguely afraid of reading what Steve says about him behind his back. He has a feeling if he gets angry right now, he might not take care of Steve right. )

After a couple hours of silently lying next to Steve interspersed with pacing - kicking his clothes around, piling papers without order, all with Steve an inescapable presence just lying there - he tries to find something else to do.

Food. Food is good.

He tries to ask Steve if he wants lunch.

Steve is belligerent.

Bucky gets Steve to eat a bit, anyway. Sure, it takes lying down on the side Steve’s facing, making eye contact, and slowly ramming bits of bread in his own mouth until Steve finally huffs and rolls his eyes, wriggling a hand out from the covers to hold it out expectantly.

Bucky is certain there is gonna be a disgusting amount of crumbs in his sheets after today, but it’s worth it.

(Well, okay, it ain’t like he hasn’t hoarded shit in his room, on his worst days. Sometimes, he’s huddled in these very sheets, cramming bits of food in his mouth. )

Laying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, and picking apart a little loaf, is when Steve speaks up.

“This is stupid. Either kick me out, or let’s talk about it.” Steve’s voice is hard and it grates on Bucky, gets his hackles raised.

“Steve, you’re a smart guy,” Bucky says lowly.

“Yeah,” Steve bites out, sharp.

“Do you really think you’re gonna convince me of shit, right now? You’ve got the argumentative capability of a mule, right now.”

Steve glares at him.

Bucky wants to cut the moment somehow, wants to boss him a little, the way they’ve been doing. Make things easy again.

He holds back, because it’s not like they don’t have enough swords of Damocles decoratin’ the place - why add another, right now?

They’re both uncomfortable as fuck, but they bludgeon through the rest of the day on pure determination.

Around 1700, Steve falls asleep, still scowling. Bucky cooks dinner while constantly checking in on him, eats it while staring warily at the rise and fall of the sheets with Steve’s breaths.

Bucky curls up beside him, hating himself more than a bit for how much he wants to wrap himself like a vice clamp around the guy, keep him from getting up tomorrow. Hates himself for wanting to maybe avoid the fact that this ain’t even really their apartment or Bucky’s bed, that they’ll have to get up and face the music, sometime.

~ ~ ~

Steve gets a few hours in the early evening, wakes up to Bucky passed out beside him. He’d faded off while glaring at the side of Bucky’s head, several arguments for why Bucky was being an idiot about this tangled around his tongue.

Now, he just feels a sort of embarrassed emptiness where the seething had been.

He’s been kind of an ass.

Bucky had been right. He wasn’t in the right mind to be having this conversation.

He feels a little clearer, now, though. And instead of counting all the ways Bucky is making things difficult, he can see the opinions for what they were - obstacles. Arguments he could sway.

Steve thinks on things. Thinks on them for a long while, while Bucky sleeps on beside him.

Thinks about being ‘okay’ with things or wanting them. Asks himself if he’s been fair.

He’s a bit chagrined to realize he hasn’t been, but the clarity he has in this moment tells him to shove aside the guilt as useless and self-aggrandizing. It won’t help Bucky, so it’s not time to dwell.

He thinks about what Bucky wants.

Thinks about tenderness and affection and sex and fucking and everything entailed. Thinks about the way Bucky gets around him these days. He tries to remember the way it used to be - Bucky and girls - and finds that the memories just don’t fit together, don’t compare... not really. It’s like looking at completely different species and trying to see the family resemblance - sure, somewhere back there they were the same, but it sure as hell wasn’t recent.

One thing’s for sure: Bucky doesn’t want some penny arcade version of things. Bucky doesn’t want something unless Steve can prove he wants it too.

So Steve is gonna have to.

~ ~ ~

Bucky wakes up when Steve rolls out of his bed around two in the morning.

He thinks, maybe Steve’s just gonna sneak out and not say anything about it. Maybe Steve’s more right in his head, now. Maybe they’ll just go back to normal, and Bucky can be better about not - not torturing himself like this. Steve will remember, even if he tries to smooth things over and pretend he doesn’t - he’s a good guy, he’ll help. He’ll stop making things so fucking hard.

Bucky lays there, sick and hopeful, until he has to get up and grab some water about an hour later. The graveyard of empty glasses - with mineral deposit waterlines from where they’ve dried up - on his nightstand seem to watch him pointedly as he goes.

He just needs - he needs a glass of water, okay?

Bucky’s a little surprised to see Steve sitting there at their table.

He feels suddenly much more exhausted. Steve’s hopeful face turning towards him is not the least bit encouraging.

Bucky seriously considers turning on his heel and marching straight back to his room.

“Hey,” Steve says. His eyes dart over to the seat across from him. Steve must be carefully biting back on whatever thing has him so energized, because he’s sitting there not saying it, back ramrod straight and hands folded carefully on the table.

“Hey,” Bucky says, unable to keep the wary suspicion out of his voice.

Instead of turning tail he faces the music. He sits down.

Steve smiles.

It’s a little sinister, in Bucky’s opinion

“Bucky, I was thinking - “ oh god, “ - and you were right.”

Well. Fuck.

He feels a little like his strings have been cut. _That_ was a little depressing to hear. It was one thing to know that he was right about it being a horrible idea, it was another for Steve to just come out say it so fuckin’ cheerfully.

Bucky stares down as his hands, resting on the table.

“I don’t think I expressed myself very well.” It’s Steve’s Responsible and Accountable voice. Bucky wants to cringe. He keeps his shoulders from buckling in - well, not that the left does that real well these days, anyway.

“So.” Steve sits straight in his chair, looking bright eyed and awake. “We should,” he says it firm, like an undeniable fact.

It takes Bucky a moment to realize what the fuck Steve is getting at. He’s ashamed to say it makes him flush, a little please to hear it.

“Steve,” Bucky warns, ‘cause he can feel the argument brewing in the stubborn set of Steve’s whole body. His own feels like it’s crumpling in on itself, waiting to lash out. He knows how his muscles feel before they spring, wishes they wouldn’t wind up without his say-so.

“There’s no good reason for us not to,” Steve says, determined. “You want to. I’d like to. You’re pretty much the only other person who I -“ Steve shakes his head, scowls at himself. “I know we’re not - we’re not alright, neither of us. But I’m never gonna have time, after this. There’s never gonna be some other - I thought about this. I thought maybe, maybe I’d just wait until we were both -“ Steve sighs, glancing away for just a moment, down at the table. “Until we were both better at things. But it’s not gonna happen. It’s never - we’re always gonna be fighting something. This lull is all we get. At least the only thing we’re fighting right now is ourselves.” Steve laughs, a bit of a bitter tinge.

It hurts because it’s a little too honest - a little too on the nose, compared to how tight-lipped Steve has been about admitting they’ve got problems.

“There’s just - there’s no good reason not to.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “oh yeah, ‘cept for the whole part where you don’t actually want to - “ Steve starts to interject, but Bucky is suddenly real fucking angry, and all that coiled tension in him just starts pouring out of his mouth, “ - and the whole thing where you’re so fucking desperate to make things right between us that you’ll say or do anything I want - ‘cause poor old Bucky Barnes, guy’s barely got his head on, right? May as well throw him a fuckin’ bone - maybe - y’know - ” Bucky splutters, cutting himself off, too angry to grandstand the way Steve does. He wishes he could articulate how fucking scared he is. How he’s worried about his own damn brain, even more than Steve’s. But instead, he just stews.

And he watches a thoughtful look cross Steve’s determined face, before a switch seems to flip and Steve is suddenly staring at him with this ridiculously entreating expression. Bucky can feel the way Steve’s changing his argument as the silence goes on. 

His voice is much softer when he speaks this time, less rigid with determination, “I’m not trying to be patronizing, Bucky. I liked it. I like seeing you - “ Steve smiles crookedly, glancing down at his lap all ‘aw shucks’ in a way that should make Bucky feel manipulated, should make him offended - but just makes him feel a little warm about things, “- get all, messed up about it.” Steve smiles.

Bucky clenches his teeth, thinks about standing up.

And then Steve looks at him, eyebrows pinching in a sad frown. “Please, Buck,” he says, coming across all soft, eyes lowered.

“Fuck you,” Bucky blurts, nigh automatic, cause he sure as hell remembers Steve telling him he ‘knew’ yesterday. 

Steve smiles a little, crooked and wry. “If you’d be okay with it, yeah.”

Bucky purses his lips. Steve keeps staring downwards.

Bucky’s nerves burn, his head feels like it’s gonna crack open.

He finds himself saying, “fine,” before he’s even really thought it through. It’s not like being bullied into it, not really. It’s letting his own reservations go. Like standing at the side of a cliff and saying, ‘fuck it, I might fall - but at least the view will be good.’

Steve’s looking up, finally, eyes wide and on Bucky.

“Yeah?” Steve is breathy. Bucky can’t remember the last time he’s seen Steve excited over something, can’t remember if it was a memory or not. “Just - we can just try it, and if you don’t like it we can stop, I promise. But, we should - just… try it,” Steve is promising, like Bucky isn’t waiting for Steve to turn around and run from this whole thing.

Steve’s standing, looking so excited, so boundless - it makes Bucky coil in on himself, muscles tightening. Steve takes a tentative step around the table and -

“Stop,” Bucky snaps.

Steve does, looking slightly stricken. 

“I’m sorry,” he says after a second.

“No. Fuck,” Bucky takes a breath, unsure how to breach the space. Not when he’s wrapped up so tight he feels like all his raw edges might go springing if he moves.

Steve looks down at the ground again, nods. 

And then the fucking bastard drops to his knees.

Bucky feels thoughts swim hot and sideways through his skull. His hair prickles at his neck and forehead.

“Is this easier?” Steve asks baldly. It’s the lack of coyness that makes Bucky less defensive. Like it’s less of a manipulation than a shared attempt to just - ease things a little. 

Steve sits back on his heels, hands on his knees, thumbs idling over the fabric there. Bucky finds himself staring there, but when he glances back to Steve’s face - Steve’s lookin’ at him, real thoughtful-like. 

“You could kiss me,“ Steve finally says. 

Bucky has to admit it’s a little shrewd to phrase it like that. A way to get around Bucky’s over-reactive, bullshit defenses without Steve actually losing any face by going so far as to beg.

(…But close enough to a plea that Bucky feels it run down his spine.)

He doesn’t want to stand - afraid of what his body might do - but he doesn’t really want Steve coming over, looming at him.

Bucky crooks his finger at Steve, feels his throat dry as hell as he says, “c’mere.”

Steve slowly shuffles forward on his knees, looking up at Bucky curiously. As if he doesn’t know what the fuck is gonna happen. Jesus.

(As if Bucky _does_.)

When Steve is kneeling by Bucky’s left knee - so close he could grab Bucky, but he doesn’t - Bucky sets his metal hand on the back of Steve’s head and leans down, bridging the space. 

It’s not anything spectacular, alright? In the long run, it’s just a kiss. Neither of them taste real great right now, with sleep and the lack of dental hygiene from yesterday’s bullshit.

But the way Steve doesn’t lay his hands on Bucky? Not even to balance against his knee? It’s fucking perfect. The way Steve’s lip tastes raw from having been chewed on all night? It’s good. The anticipation, the comfort of the only person he wants to touch him like this, the excitement of realizing it’s not as awful as he thought things might be -

It’s real fucking good. 

So there’s a kiss, nothing special in a cosmic sense. But it’s damn good, none-the-less. Bucky feels his own blood running herd under his skin.

There’s no tongue or nothing, just the dry press of lips with the small edge of wet cling that brings it into a different kind of territory.

And then there’s Bucky pulling away. He feels his hair tug a little, a few strands stuck on Steve’s mouth.

Steve’s eyes and mouth seem so wide as they gaze up at Bucky in the low light of the kitchen.

Bucky traces his metal thumb over the hinge of Steve’s jaw and thinks - this is pretty fuckin’ alright, after all. No one’s killed anyone thus far and Steve hasn’t gotten grabby and Bucky hasn’t made a damn fool of himself.

Steve tilts his head into Bucky’s hand and asks, conversational-like, “hey, could I suck you?”

Bucky is pretty sure the weird grunt he makes in the back of his throat is the least attractive noise he’s ever made - and the memories of his voice during puberty have survived his brain fry surprisingly vividly, so that’s saying something.

Steve looks concerned, starts chewing on his lip again - which _really_ doesn’t help - and adds, contrite sounding, “hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - I just always wondered -”

“Always?” Bucky rasps, kind of wishing Steve wasn’t kneeling there practically licking his chops near Bucky’s dick.

Steve tilts his head back and forth thoughtfully, “well, I mean, I knew I liked guys back then and even if I didn’t think I would ever get to, I was always curious -”

“You _knew_?!” Bucky says, an unintentional mirror of yesterday’s conversation. He’s not sure if he’s more horrified that he can’t remember knowing, or more impressed that apparently while Bucky had been carefully looking away from his own thoughts because it Wasn’t Done, Steve had been unpacking his own and examining them, one by one.

“Well, yeah, you know I - what with everyone from school being so open about it? And growing up, all the - it was hard not to know about the scenes. I mean, you knew how I felt about people talking shit about the queers in our neighborhood,” Steve says reproachfully.

Suddenly, stupidly, it becomes very important to ask, “you ever fuck any of them?” Bucky’s a little embarrassed by how cold his voice is. But he pretty distinctly remembers Steve telling him _everything_ and this sure as hell feels like news to him. (Jesus, he hopes it is. That he’s not rehashing some ages old argument he has no emotional concept of.) Steve defending anyone people had a prejudice against, that ain’t new - Steve has never been good at biting his tongue about that. But suddenly all the innuendoes about art students that he’d defended Steve from when he wasn’t around to defend his own honor come filtering back, sluggishly, into Bucky’s perception. 

Steve snorts, then shakes his head, “you know I wasn’t really the kinda guy anyone was gonna risk gettin’ in trouble with the law for,” he mutters.

“Fuck you, pal,” Bucky says, offended in a kneejerk sort of way. “I woulda gone to fuckin’ jail for you, alright?” He says it so sure, has his metal fingers digging into Steve’s neck - but immediately afterwards, he feels uncertain and a little out to sea. ‘Cause maybe he would’ve gone to jail for Steve, sure, but he sure hadn’t let himself explore that kind of option with Steve, had he? Not that he remembers. Not that Steve’s ever intimated. 

Steve must sense the shift, but he doesn’t call Bucky on the pretty blatant fuckin’ discrepency of the seventy odd years it’s taken them to get here. 

Nah, Steve doesn’t do that. 

He just turns his head and sucks Bucky’s fuckin’ thumb in, tracing the ridges with his tongue - his eyes aren’t even staring up at Bucky or nothing, just closed as he concentrates. Invasive thoughts of his thumb puncturing through Steve’s lip fill Bucky’s head. He knows the way the sensitivity would recalibrate if he went to crush his jaw. Knows how the wet warmth of blood dries into dull, matte, brown and -

Bucky lets out a shaky breath.

“Not - not right now, though, okay?” Bucky says, surprised he hasn’t shoved Steve to the ground and booked it. Surprised he found the words. Hopes Steve knows what he means.

Steve stops immediately, sitting back further on his heels. He gives Bucky an apologetic smile, “yeah, alright.”

Bucky is a little put out. Even though the sudden lack of proximity gives him room to think, it kinda rankles. He reaches forward to run his wet thumb back over Steve’s lips. “I mean, I don’t want you sucking my dick just now,” he says, and it sounds petulant and childish to his ears, but Steve opens his mouth again, letting Bucky’s thumb rest on the slick warmth of his lower lip as Steve licks at it.

Bucky’s heart’s going triple time but everything feels like fuckin’ molasses as they sit there in this kitchen. Every couple seconds, like a surging tide, he thinks about Steve’s knees on the cold, hard floor and worries - but then he gets wrapped up in the thought of Steve doing it to make things easier on Bucky and it just - it feels good, alright? His stomach is lurching with the back and forth of guilt and pleasure.

“This okay?” Bucky asks, and his voice is huskier than he intends.

Steve nods, mouth bobbing around Bucky’s thumb in a way that puts nails in Bucky’s coffin. 

It’s probably only a minute or two but the anticipation is physically painful, if uplifting. Hell, Bucky’s spent almost a full day straight in a cramped sniper’s nest without a pot to piss in, before, but even wedged into place for twenty three hours with a full bladder is nothing to trying to sit still with Steve contentedly sucking each of his fingers in turn.

Steve ruins it, ‘cause he’s never been able to bite his tongue for long. Not when things are something approaching alright, at any rate.

“Isn’t this better?” Steve asks, eventually, lifting off Bucky’s pinky and laying a small kiss on his knuckles. He asks it in a voice that is probably trying real hard for neutral but ends up somewhere closer to smug and self satisfied. Bucky can forgive it, ‘cause it ain’t like they get easy moments real often these days.

“Yeah,” he says, too tired for the argument lying in wait.

Steve looks so pleased - smiling up at Bucky like that - Bucky thinks maybe it was a good idea to let it lie.

It’s still the early hours of the morning, and when Bucky’s mind goes searching for Steve’s regiment of Things to Do When Bucky Feels Like Shit and Needs to Tell Him Something (Anything), he hits up hard against ‘sleep’. 

Steve’s lips are soft on his knuckle, not quite sucking or kissing but idly moving against them. He looks up curious at Bucky, waiting on him - determined to wait on him, even.

“You, uh - you wanna get some more rest?” It’s stupid, they spent half the damn day ‘resting’, but a part of Bucky just wants to retain whatever understanding they’ve come to. Doesn’t want Steve to go and start dealing with the parts of his life that don’t involve Bucky. Doesn’t want to be left the only one thinking about this until his mind breaks.

Steve looks uncertain. “…If you want to,” he says after a few long moments, sounding less than chuffed at the idea.

Bucky stands, grabs hold of Steve’s biceps and helps pull him upright. Steve’s mouth is pinching, his forehead crinkling. 

Bucky starts to doubt himself, starts to think maybe - but, no. Fuck it. Steve is a big boy and can say whatever is bothering him, alright?

It’s only when Bucky has herded Steve past Steve’s room and in towards Bucky’s that his shoulders relax a bit. Bucky can’t help his own smug thoughts over it.

Alright. Alright, they can do this.

~ ~ ~

Nothing feels easy about this. Steve is lead back into Bucky’s room victorious, but he can’t exactly say that things are anywhere close to resolved.

Steve crawls under the blankets, facing away from Bucky. When Bucky’s back rests up against his own, he gets a sudden sense memory of being a kid and sleeping over at the Barneses. The scent of metal and Bucky lingering on the sheets, the tens of glasses on the all the surfaces - it’s all replaced. He’s suddenly inhaling a whiff of stale apartment air and the damp smell of rotting wallpaper that had simply been ‘home’ to him for his entire childhood of revolving walk-ups in the shitty part of town. 

They’d slept together often, back then. 

He kinda wishes it were more like that - sure, they’ve kinda agreed on some nebulous _something_ , but what the fuck is even gonna happen next? Bucky’s shoulder blades bump against his back, and that’s about as much contact as they seem to be able to stand. 

It’s driving Steve insane.

“You sure you don’t want that blow job?” Steve jokes wryly. 

Well, maybe he hadn’t purged _all_ the salt from yesterday.

Bucky’s back stiffens against Steve’s.

Steve’s afraid he’s fucked things up again - he starts to feel Bucky quiver, shaking the bed. But then he hears a choked noise come out of Bucky and realizes he’s _laughing_.

“I honestly should have realized,” Bucky manages through raspy chuckles. “Of course you’re just as blunt with this as everything else.”

Bucky’s hand surprises Steve when it reaches back and pats him on his left hip. It’s the flesh one, and the warmth of it rests there, seeping through the material of sheets, pajama pants, and underwear.

“You have to - “ Bucky starts after a second, but cuts himself off immediately.

After another couple awkward seconds of silence, Steve flips over onto his back. Bucky’s hand retreats, Steve stares in consideration at the back of Bucky’s head.

Then, Bucky twists onto his back and sits up, squinting down at Steve. “You have to do it the way I want you to, okay?” he says eventually, gritting it out angry like, but to Steve there’s something almost contrite in there.

“However you want it,” Steve promises, staring back up at him and hoping he can avoid whatever things got Bucky so bad he’s gotta add stipulations all over the place.

It’s not that Steve doesn’t get it - he does. It’s just that no matter how hard he tries, he feels like he’s always ending up wrong footing Bucky. Laying back and letting Bucky take the reins has worked lately, he only hopes he can do it the way Bucky _likes_ without messing it up.

And then Bucky is straddling Steve’s chest, staring down grim as gallows at Steve. Steve smiles up at him, doesn’t put his hands on Bucky’s hips the way he wants to. Bucky is shaking again, but with that severe expression? Steve’s certain it isn’t held-back laughter. 

Bucky’s hands come up to frame Steve’s face, and Steve’s muscle memories are telling him he’s about to be made to resemble a blow fish, or possibly to have his neck wrenched as someone tries to break it - but Bucky just rests them on his cheeks - one hard and unyielding, the other padded with smooth callouses. 

“You gonna be good for me?” Bucky asks, breathy. Steve’s getting a little wrapped up in the way Bucky’s right thumb trails over the corner of his mouth, the way Bucky’s agitated frown is slowly softening into something else. “Gonna be a good boy for me?”

\- And then he can’t help but let out a burst of laughter at that. ‘Good boy’. Bucky’s calling him a ‘good boy’, and it’s just too much, and he’s kind of nervous and the whole thing feels kind of ridiculous for how solemn they’re both making it.

Bucky instantly looks affronted, like Steve’s hauled off and slapped him. Steve can feel him shift his weight, about to get off. “No, no, no!” Steve chances reaching up to grab onto Bucky’s wrists, twists his head to the side to kiss Bucky’s right wrist, feeling the ridges of Bucky’s tendons against his lips. He tries to look as sweet as he can when he glances back up. Tries to get his eyes to look real earnest. “Please, I wanna be good for you. I do. Please.”

~ ~ ~

It’s - it’s fucking offensive, the way Steve laughs in Bucky’s fucking face just when he’s starting to feel hot and in control of the moment. It shoots Bucky through with embarrassment, leaves him off kilter. But as angry and hurt as he is, when he hears Steve pleading, sees him staring up so sincere - yeah, maybe Steve finds it all a little ridiculous, but he’s being honest about it when he looks up Bucky like that.

Steve’s doing all this to be sweet for Bucky, and maybe he did laugh, but - Bucky can’t help but think that just the fact that he’s trying so hard more than makes up for a bit of hurt ego.

Bucky lets a stray impulse take over and runs his metal thumb over Steve’s eyelashes to see if he can feel it. The pressure sensitivity ups briefly and he can feel the light tension of the hairs against the plates. Steve just blinks, doesn’t even call Bucky out for being a weird son of a bitch.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says eventually, once he can find the words. “You are, you’re being so good for me.”

A brief flash of something small and pleased comes over Steve’s face, a slight tension in the corner of his mouth the hasty beginnings of a smile.

Running on this hot feeling, that’s how Bucky manages to undo the buttons of his jeans and pull himself through the fly of his shorts without getting up and throwing Steve out of the room - like some part of him still wants to do, uncertain if it’s to protect Steve or himself.

He’s half hard. He’s _been_ half hard since Steve knelt by his feet in the kitchen, sucked on Bucky’s finger like there was no place he’d rather be.

And, listen -

Listen.

People talk a lot of shit about phallic metaphors - and blowjobs sure as hell aren’t like sucking on a lollipop or deepthroating a banana - but when Bucky sets the tip of his cock against Steve’s lips, Steve has the exact same look he had when he suckled on Bucky’s thumb. Pupils blown, staring right back at Bucky, looking like he’s in a god damned trance.

Steve licks at the underside of Bucky’s tip and Bucky is pretty sure he’s about ready to - just, he doesn’t - 

It’s even more overwhelming when Steve’s brows furrow a bit and he cranes his head to try to fit more inside his mouth. 

There’s a split second where Bucky honestly considers pulling Steve off his dick to check if he’s alright - but Steve’s tongue is, wow, yeah, it’s uhh. Very hot and wet and _Jesus, it’s dipped right in the fucking slit_ , and it makes _things_ get jumbled up in Bucky’s spine, almost hurts from being too much except Steve’s already moving on, seeming intent on licking every damn crevice of his dick. Slipping under his foreskin, tracing his frenulum, mouth and lips and neck craning - it makes Bucky have to take deep breaths, louder than they should be. Steve’s hairs are needle sharp against the sensitive skin between the fingers of his right hand as he cradles Steve’s head, tries not to put pressure on him with either hand but fails a little. It’s too fucking much, and he’s certain that if Steve weren’t pinned under him, he’d have instinctively punched him in the fucking face like the rest of the fuckers who’ve been under the Soldier’s skin and caught the panic that rises in him, because it’s _too much_ and -

The thing is, Bucky’s a selfish fuck sometimes, and even as he feels his brain slip sideways, dangerous and with terrible timing, the sight and feel of Steve so intent on making it good for him, so careful to keep his hands gripping the sheets instead of Bucky -

Bucky lets himself fuck into Steve’s mouth shallowly, likes the way Steve’s head moves back into his hands with the small rolling motions, until it’s fully back on the pillow, looking so at ease, so comfortable, as his tongue chases the dick coming in and out of his mouth. His mouth goes a little lax, and even though it doesn’t feel as good - as tight and sensitive - the control over the situation anchors Bucky, makes the shakes coming through him feel less terrifying, like he’s _letting_ it happen instead of being forced through it.

It doesn’t take much of this, of this perfect feeling of everything going right for them for once. Steve staring up at him, glassy eyed, from under his eyelashes. Letting Bucky take it the way that makes him feel alright with it all. He comes in Steve’s mouth, the feeling of Steve’s tongue glancing off his slit on an out stroke too much. Almost instinctive, Steve’s hands come up to grab Bucky’s ass. Bucky can’t even mind, on account of the way he’s got a hold of Steve’s head. Steve’s moaning mouth around him, his eyes fluttering shut as he sucks Bucky through it.

Bucky’s heart’s pounding.

Afterward, when he stumbles off Steve sideways, like dismounting a horse, and sits beside him. When Steve is staring up at the ceiling - his spit-slick, red mouth smiling up stupidly at the ceiling. That’s when Bucky reaches across and pulls Steve’s shorts waistband down.

Steve’s hands fly up, “you don’t have to, Buck, it’s fine -“

“Steve,” Bucky says severely, and wraps his metal hand around Steve’s dick, likes how wet his tip looks when Bucky pulls the foreskin down over his shaft. How purple his head looks, dribbling a little just from sucking Bucky off. Bucky’s stomach curls, painful and perfect.

“You don’t -“ Steve babbles. He keens a little, hands gripping the sheets again.

Bucky watches, sated and lazy as he pumps Steve through it. Takes note of how concerned and vaguely horrified Steve looks, eyes darting around, squirming.

“Do you want me to stop?” Bucky asks after a moment, hand stilling. He’s finally rising out of his post-orgasmic haze enough to realize that Steve literally just tried to hem and haw his way out of this.

Steve is breathing hard, eyebrows tipped up steep in the center and looking distraught. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have - “

Bucky’s lips press into a thin line, he brings his right hand over to Steve’s mouth. “Hey,” he says. “Suck?”

Steve’s eyebrows are still furrowed, but with his eyes closed, and his mouth sucking hard on two of Bucky’s fingers - fit to combat the toughest malt-stoppered straw - his squirming is stilling a bit. Teeth dig into Bucky’s joints - not hard, just pressing in with the force of the suction.

Steve lets out the sweetest little hum when he comes in Bucky’s hand, hips writhing. Bucky toys with him through it, likes the little choked off grunts and whimpers, the way Steve’s balls tighten up enough to brush the edge of his palm on a downstroke when he shoots off. The way the white streaks shine on the metal plates.

Afterwards, Steve’s panting. But he still hasn’t stopped sucking on Bucky’s fingers - slower now, softer. More mouthing than anything else. Bucky gently removes them, presses the waterlogged tips against Steve’s lower lip, likes the way his eyes flicker open to look up at Bucky, dazed.

“Hey,” Bucky says, again. Tries to clear the way his throat feels swollen with the moment. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs. He unclenches his shaky left hand from the sheets, swipes his hair off his forehead. Gives another ridiculous little chuckle.

Bucky stares down at the come on his fingertips, moves his hand around so the plates and the spend catch the light. Steve watches him be a total moron, a stupid smile on his own face. 

Bucky licks the cooling come off his index fingers, smiles around the digit back at Steve. Steve laughs again, breathy. And then his fumbling hands are grabbing Bucky around his wrist and bringing the hand closer to his mouth. For once, the thoughts cycling through his head are less about the terrifying impact of his fist through Steve’s dentition, and more about how much Steve might laugh if Bucky smeared a little ejaculate mustache on him right now.

But he doesn’t smear any proteins over Steve’s face. He just lets Steve happily suck it from his fingers. Likes the wet heat, likes the way Steve can’t stop smiling around his fingers.

Later, he’ll feel the hormones and everything settle off a bit. He’ll gingerly draw his fingers out of Steve’s mouth, tuck himself back in his pants, and go have a minor crisis in the shower.

For now, he just smiles back down at Steve, who laughs ridiculously around his fingers - unable to stop himself from bursting out in laughter, but still intent on feeding the metal between his lips.

‘Wet heat,’ Bucky thinks. He laughs and his hair catches on his open mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, guys. Seriously, sorry for the wait, haha. There's been a lot of good reasons (work stuffs and family stuffs) and bad reasons (being a weenie and deciding that nothing I write is good and blah blah boring invasive thoughts bullshittery) for me not posting for a while. 
> 
> But, things are somewhat easier now. I'm hoping to finish this fic's main story by mid January. There's about two chapters left, each about the same size as the rest have been. Everything after the main story is small smut bits, which are far easier to write and will be posted basically as I feel like it. Several of them have already been written, even, haha.
> 
> Lots of love! As always, feel free to be harsh as fuck in critiques - it helps me understand when I've stopped being coherent and have made some story fuck-ups.
> 
> Also, come whine about super soldiers with me on tumblr. [Linguastrata](https://linguastrata.tumblr.com/) is my main blog. [Fowlprose](https://fowlprose.tumblr.com/) is my writing blog.


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